Queen of Hearts
by Mariel Nightstalker
Summary: Short romantic stories from A to Z. SLASH FEMSLASH HET Assorted and Rare pairings.
1. Alexipharmic

A/N: This will be a series of short stories as described in the summary. I am open to pairing suggestions. It doesn't mean I will accept your ideas, but I will read them and consider them.

**Alexipharmic**

_Alexipharmic: an antidote to poison._

Harry Potter lay on a hospital bed with a face whiter than the starch-stiff sheets covering it. A team of physicians and their accompanying nurses swarmed around him busily, snapping orders at each other and doing mysterious things with shiny implements and glass potion bottles.

People had been trying to kill off the Boy Hero ever since his defeat of the Dark Lord. Spells flung from crowds or dark corners were a weekly occurrence. However Harry had been immune to their detrimental effects due to an excessive amount of shield charms and his own swift reflexes. No one thought that anyone would actually manage to seriously threaten his life.

That is, no one thought that until someone found a way to poison him. It was slow-acting but so far they had been unable to identify it. If they couldn't find out what exactly was working through his blood stream they couldn't treat it.

Outside, the public held their breath.

Inside his pain-wracked mind, Harry wrangled with the bands of poison tightening around his chest and forehead. He was unconscious and unable to warn the physicians that this poison couldn't be cured with a potion or spell.

Hermione had pioneered research into psychological warfare with Harry. The Ministry got wind of it somehow and began funding their discoveries in exchange for use of any successful weapons they might make. They made a variety of spells that would mimic the experience of meeting a Boggart, and still more that would drive the victim into a trap of circular thinking that would gradually build until they were unable to focus on anything else, even their physiological needs. And then they made three, just three, poisons. The first forced a person to confront the reality of their mortality and had uncertain results depending on the person imbibing it. Several of the test subjects committed suicide, while others merely became depressed and disinterested in other people. The second poison mimicked a Dementor by dragging up the subject's most painful memories and forcing them to relive them over and over again.

The final poison was subtler. It immobilized the subject until they made peace with their most-repressed desire. Because it froze the body's ability to maintain itself, unless the subject managed to reconcile themselves to their desire(s), it was almost always deadly.

Harry was confused. He didn't know that he had any serious repressed desires. Time was running out and he was still unsure of what he was supposed to be accepting. Panic began to build in the outskirts of his mind, ready to overwhelm him when his body finally gave out.

Just as he was resigning himself to praying to whatever deity would hear him, something flickered through his consciousness. Outside, his facial muscles contracted into a frown. That wasn't right. That couldn't be right.

A memory had surfaced. He peered at it and had to admit that it was what he was looking for.

In the memory he was at the Spanish coast with Ron and Hermione and the kids, minding his business and enjoying the weather. They'd packed a picnic and mixed freely with the Muggles crowding the beach. Rows of people lay in various positions of repose tanning or laughing with their friends and family.

Harry went for a walk along the edge of the water alone towards late afternoon when the crowds began to thin as people departed to eat dinner. He was lost in his thoughts when his eyes happened to land on someone walking towards him. The person was blonde and a bit thinner than the reasonable weight one expects a man aged 25-30 to be. When they came closer still Harry held his breath when he recognized him as Draco Malfoy. Draco didn't notice him. His eyes were trained on the water and two small wires showed that he was listening to music with a Muggle device. That was almost as surprising as his presence in Spain. It was commonly known that the Malfoys (what was left of them) relocated to Switzerland after their pardoning.

But then Harry supposed that Draco could also be holidaying here like himself.

They passed each other and Harry turned his head to watch him go. Something that felt like a great powerful wave swept through him, and more than anything he wanted to jog after Draco and talk to him, to see how he was.

He shook it off and turned to keep walking.

Harry decided that there had to be more to that desire to speak to Draco. Why else would his mind present it to him?

Picking through the other memories he had of Draco and what he knew of his family, he tried to find out what desire lay behind his need to speak with him and reassure himself that Draco was alright.

Another memory surfaced. He tried to reject it as a one-time whim but had to acknowledge that it was likely what he was looking for.

It was the last time Harry saw him after his trial. He happened to be passing through the Travel section of the Ministry when the Malfoys were taking a Portkey out. His eyes picked out the twin tall blonde figures standing on the platform to Switzerland, their belongings surrounding them in expensive trunks (probably family heirlooms), ready to depart. He remembered looking at Draco and feeling sad that they would no longer be in the same country together. At the time he'd shoved away the feeling as ridiculous and no doubt a side effect of the lack of sleep and stress he'd been handling lately. Why should he want Draco Malfoy around of all the pricks he knew?

He was ready to acknowledge what that had meant now. He wanted Draco to be a part of his life. He didn't know why or how Draco would react, but it was what it was. If he beat this poison, the first thing he was going to do was get his contact information and harass him until he agreed to be his…well, he would think about that later. One thing at a time.

He felt the poison recede and the clamping sensation vanish. His body and mind were reunited in perfect harmony again. After a few moments his eyes slid open and he beckoned to the nearest physician. She bent low, hero-worship glowing in her eyes. In his raspy voice he said,

"I need to talk to Draco Malfoy."

~000~

End Alexipharmic


	2. Brazen Head

**Brazen Head**

The Department of Mysteries contained a number of artifacts connected directly with the revelation of the future or truth. Because of the sensitive nature of both types of information, those artifacts were guarded closely. Only the Minister and a few other select persons from the Department were allowed to regularly consult them in the process of maintaining peace and stability in Great Britain.

Hermione Granger was not one of the few privileged truth-seekers or Seers. She was, however, a very clever witch. And she had a question that she just had to know the answer to. She'd spent three years trying to work out the answer on her own and by asking every intelligent trustworthy person that would answer, but still the answer eluded her. No matter what she discovered she wasn't satisfied one way or the other.

Now all she could do was hope that the legendary Brazen Head, the least-protected of the truth-telling artifacts, could answer her question satisfactorily. If it gave her the answer in the form of a riddle or parable, so help her, she would not be responsible for her actions.

The wards were down and she was alone with the bronze cast of a man's face. It was set in undecorated pink marble and seemed to stare sightlessly through her. She murmured the waking spell and then held her breath. What if it had decayed? What if it refused to answer? She wasn't sure if either were possible.

It didn't say anything, and she wondered why she had expected it to. It was a device for answering questions, not making small talk. She took a deep breath, steeled her nerves, and asked,

"Brazen Head, does love exist?"

"Not for everyone."

She pondered this.

"Am I allowed to ask more than one question?"

"Yes," the face seemed to smile, but it could be a trick of the shadows.

"Will I fall in love?"

"You are already in love."

She frowned, "I am?"

"Yes."

"With whom?"

The face definitely smiled this time, "Do you really need to ask?"

She looked down and started to mumble before she realized that the face had answered her question with a question. Her head snapped up and she accusingly hissed, "Hey-"

The Brazen Head was stone still and obviously in repose. She cast the wakening spell over and over again to no effect. She pouted and returned the wards to their original positions, annoyed and hopeful all at once.

Just as she was about the leave, the voice of the Brazen Head reverberated through her mind.

"He loves you as well."

She grinned then and threw a glance over her shoulder into the gloom of the Department where she knew the Head was stored.

Ron met her for their usual lunch together the next day to catch up. All the old members of the D.A. tried their best to keep in touch as they split off in different directions and invested in their careers and families. She always saw Ron and Harry on Sundays for lunch with the Weasleys, but met them individually for lunch during the week if she could as well. There are things you can and things you can't say within Mrs. Weasley's earshot.

In a fit of boldness, she seized Ron's hand, interrupting his complaints about his incompetent new partner. He stuttered to a stop and promptly turned redder than his hair. She just smiled and asked him to finish what he was saying. After a few false starts he did so.

He squeezed her hand and didn't let go for the rest of lunch. It was only a small step, but it was the first of many.

~000~

End Brazen Head

See, not only are they vaguely fluffy, they are also educational! (Not really but let's pretend)


	3. Chance Happenstance

**Chance Happenstance**

While attending Hogwarts she'd acquired the derogatory nickname of Loony and it stuck.

To strangers she was odd, but her closest friends knew that her oddness was really just a compounding of her tendency to be absent-minded, whimsical, and peevish if she missed one of her seven daily teatimes. For someone who drank as much sugar-water and ate as many biscuits as she did, Luna maintained a trim little figure without seeming to exercise. Another mystery was how she managed to support herself financially. After her father's death she continued to publish the Quibbler, which has a scant readership, and pursued her own bizarre research projects on the side. Where she found funding for those was also unknown, even to Ginny Weasley-Finnegan, who was considered her closest friend.

As a child she was precociously brilliant, but at the onset of puberty her mind seemed to wander away down a rabbit trail never to return. A misty look came into her eyes that cleared during her moments of profound lucidity but was otherwise permanent. Her friends bandied around the theory that she looked the way she did because of how much time she spent asleep. If she could, she slept for twelve hours every day, nine at night and three during the day as naps. They thought that maybe she just functioned partially asleep all the time. It would explain some of the things she said and did.

Today was Luna's 28th birthday. She sat on a bench in a secluded corner of Hyde Park lazily enjoying a cappuccino and listening to the sounds of tourists arguing. After a while she stood and shuffled slip-slop over to a trash can to dispose of her empty coffee cup. She looked around, wondering what she should do until her next tea.

A seated figure on the bench adjacent to the trash can caught her eye. The gender of the figure was difficult to determine, but if Luna was interpreting the lavender hue to their aura, they were female. She, if it was a she, was reading the newspaper with a look of devoted interest uncommon on the bland expressions of common-day people. Intrigued, Luna approached in hopes of seeing what was so interesting.

The figure looked over when she sat down. It was definitely a woman. The eyes gave the secret away. She was also familiar.

While Luna tried to place her, the woman smirked and said, "Luna Lovegood; fancy meeting_ you_ here of all places. Though I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised. You always were unpredictable. How the fuck are you, you little weirdo?"

It was Millicent Bulstrode! She had gotten taller still than her days at Hogwarts and would likely embarrass a large percentage of the male population if they attempted to look manly beside her. With her broad shoulders and powerful legs, she could probably break a full-grown man in half over her knee with ease. The old sparkle in her eyes made Luna's belly constrict.

She'd rather fancied Millicent at school, from safe distance of course.

"I'm having a nice day; how are you?" she replied, using her polite voice. Millicent was looking very well indeed. The obvious man's suit only emphasized her natural charms instead of stifling and distorting them like clothing tailored for the feminine form did. Luna folded her hands tightly in her lap to keep from rudely giving in to her desire to grip Millicent's bicep to feel the bunched muscle there.

"I'm alright, though out of work at present. Say, today's your birthday, isn't it? Or am I way off?"

Luna was shocked. Ginny had forgotten her birthday; she hadn't been expecting anyone to remember it when most of her friends had children and time-consuming careers to keep their heads spinning. She didn't take it personally. She knew that they all forgot each others birthdays consistently.

She nodded. Millicent folded her paper and stuffed it into the brown leather satchel leaning against her feet on the ground. Standing, she offered her hand to Luna. Luna took it and stood as well. The crown of her head came up to Millicent's sternum.

"Will you let me buy you something to eat in celebration? It's nice to see a familiar face, no matter what was going on the last time I saw you. That's all ancient history now, after all. Hell, I heard Draco and Harry Potter nod to each other in the halls now."

Luna knew that they were doing more than nodding, but she kept that to herself.

"I never turn down a free meal," she answered truthfully. Moments later Millicent had hidden them inside some shrubbery and whisked them away to a restaurant Luna had never seen before. It looked expensive.

"Can you afford this? You said you were unemployed," she pointed out, eyeing the lumpy nameless spiritual manifestations of greed and gluttony practically burying the place. The delicious smell surrounding the location had already whetted her appetite, though, and she knew that she would pay for lunch if Millicent couldn't.

Millicent snorted, amused. "Lovegood, I work for my amusement, not my livelihood. Besides, I own the place. They can hardly deny me food."

"Oh," Luna absent-mindedly replied, now distracted by the creeping purple shadows of satisfaction trailing behind an exiting couple. The food must be as good as it smelled if their shadows were that long.

Without further delay Millicent ushered her inside, jerked her head at the Head Waiter, and chose a table without assistance. It was towards the back between the W.C and the kitchens. Luna was fascinated by the visual and aromatic display that the smells brought on. Millicent watched her, her chin in her palm, just as fascinated.

Millicent was the oldest child of the Bulstrode clan. Her father frequently cursed her for supposedly stealing her younger brother's manhood. She never took him seriously, but did privately wonder a few times if that was possible. Her four younger brothers were all cowardly sissy crybabies that couldn't even handle a friendly punch to the face. She left those thoughts behind when she went off to school, but returned to them when she passed through puberty and found her eyes fixing on her female classmates rather than their masculine counterparts. She couldn't help it. A naked man only made her laugh, whereas most women without their clothes were legitimately desirable. She never told anyone a word of this, and she especially never let it slip that Loony Lovegood, of all unlikely people, drew her eye the most. She covered herself up with skirts that dragged around her skinny calves and sweaters clearly stolen from her father's closet. Still, Millicent could see that she was beautiful. The dreamy faraway look on her face only added to the appeal, in her opinion. It was like Luna didn't belong in the same world with the rest of them. She spent many nights lying awake wondering what Luna saw that the rest of them didn't. She wondered what Luna thought about. Most of all she wondered if there was any way she could get to know her.

She prayed for peace not for the sake of peace, but so that both their lives would be preserved until she could find a way to speak to her. And today she'd found the perfect opening. She knew that Luna loved to eat, though you'd never guess it from her slim little fairy-body, and that none of her friends were likely to remember her birthday. She planted herself in Luna's favorite park and waited.

The newspaper had contained a surprising development in Egypt that briefly stole her attention. Never in a million years had she expected Luna to approach her.

She smiled at the thought. She ordered a bottle of wine from their waiter when he appeared, feeling bold. Luna wasn't particular about alcohol so Millicent took the liberty of ordering her personal favorite.

"Do you own a lot of restaurants?" Luna asked suddenly, her eyes losing a little of their faraway look. Millicent was surprised to find them blue and not gray.

"Oh, well, no. I co-own this one with Blaise, who actually takes an interest in it other than eating here, and I have shares in several Muggle chains under a false name."

"Why?"

"So the Ministry can't seize that source of income if they do another witch hunt for all the old 'Dark Arts Crowd'. I learned my lesson the first time and diversified."

Luna looked thoughtful (or more so than usual), "I didn't know they did those."

"A lot of people don't. It's embarrassing to get picked on like a common criminal so most people that get bullied don't talk about it and the Ministry certainly doesn't advertise their actions unless they_ want_ the publicity."

Their waiter arrived and took their orders. When he was gone Millicent waved her hands and said, "Look, let's not spend your birthday lunch talking about how unfair life can be. Why don't you tell me what you've been working on these days?"

"Is my name Turandot, that you ask me to spin stories?" Luna asked with a sparkle in her voice. Millicent caught her breath but Luna didn't seem to notice and went on, "I am looking into the connection between the vampire population surges and Easter. I think there might be something there that will explain basic facts of the Vampire."

Millicent asked her what she'd found so far and just listened and ate and made sure to say just enough so that Luna would remember to eat as well. The wine went down easy despite it being midday, and Millicent had to up her water intake as well to dilute some of the alcohol's influence. She didn't want to get over-familiar or let something slip.

They ate and drank more than their fill and finally sat lingering over their coffee at close to four in the afternoon.

"I really enjoyed our date," Luna said as she reached across the table and touched Millicent's hand with her little finger. Millicent flushed and smiled down at her.

"I didn't know it was a date."

"Well…" Luna looked out the window, her pinky joined by her ring finger on Millicent's hand, "I didn't know it was either."

She knew that Millicent had been the very incarnation of hospitality and charm and loveliness to her for the past few hours and watched her closely. At first it was merely out of her natural habit of looking for treachery, but it turned into an excuse to admire the way the sunlight fell on Millicent's elegant nose and brows. She watched closer still and caught the tell-tale glimmer in her eye and softness to her mouth that betrayed affection and attraction.

Never in a million years had she expected someone successful and obviously very clever like Millicent to look at her that way. Luna knew a good thing when she saw it and meant to keep that look just where it was, if not a little closer.

She laid her hand fully atop Millicent's with a shy look, her nerves fighting to show on her face despite her best efforts.

"Luna?"

"Hm?"

"Would you…" Millicent bit her lip and then smiled broadly at her, "would you like to spend the rest of the day with me? We could look for a present."

Luna nodded. Millicent stood, helped her put her things together, and led her out into the waning sunlight. This was the best birthday she could ever remember having, and she was determined not to ruin it by thinking of what Ginny would say.

Even after they'd been partners for thirty-four years, Luna still thought it was chance happenstance that they met that day. Millicent knew otherwise.

~000~

End Chance Happenstance

Millicent = butch goddess. (Guess who my favorite female character is)

Furthermore, daylight savings are a bitch. I was _using _that extra hour of sleep!


	4. Delusional Optimism

**Delusional Optimism**

Ron Weasley's loyalty to the ever-incompetent Chudley Cannons was well known. Cannons-themed Christmas and Birthday gifts were always received with enthusiasm almost as impressive as the team's record for losing even when all the odds were stacked in their favor.

Seamus Finnegan was well aware of Ron's love of the Cannons. Though he hated to watch a game where the outcome was always a certainty, he had to make up for all the Irish pride festivals he dragged Ron to somehow. So it worked out that roughly once a month Seamus would scream out his pride for his genetics, drunk off his ass, while Ron sulked next to him and roughly once a month Seamus would try not to wince as the Cannons were beaten yet again by some other incompetent team while Ron hovered on the edge of his seat looking for all the world as though he didn't know who could possibly come out on top.

For all that he complained about it, Seamus had to admit that he admired Ron for what he could only call his delusional optimism. Even if the sky was so thick with gray clouds that you felt like they were gathered around your head, Ron would still talk about the possibility of sunshine later in the day. It was endearing, really, if a bit annoying sometimes.

It was after a Cannons game that Seamus chose to ask Ron how he felt about him. Ron looked panicked for a moment before Seamus could actually see his innate optimism kick in.

"I fancy you. And I think that maybe you fancy me too…?"

Seamus smiled and that was that. Ron was worth watching bad Quidditch for.

~000~

End Delusional Optimism


	5. Enough is Enough

**Enough is Enough**

"Hello Theodore."

Pansy Parkinson, dressed in a silky Muggle pantsuit that violated the modesty values of the older generation of Wizards that was drawing stares even from the middle-aged, gracefully slid into the seat opposite his. Theo had been enjoying a coffee and the morning's papers in peace in his favorite café but now he was forced to be social.

He nodded his head at her.

"Hi Pansy."

She picked up one of the papers and began to flip through it idly as she talked, "I wasn't expecting to see you out in the open so soon after your divorce. I thought you might prefer to at least pretend to wallow for a while, for the sake of appearances."

"Yeah, well, I don't remember you playing the wronged lady when you got divorced. If I remember correctly, you were running around with some Italian pretty boy before the week was out."

She didn't rise to the bait, choosing to give him a smirk instead that somehow spoke volumes about what she'd gotten up to with her pretty boy. Once she'd gotten her point across her eyes dropped to the newspaper in her hands. They read together in silence for a while. Theo drank his coffee and watched Pansy out of the corner of his eye. She was an insufferable piece of work, but by god she was beautiful. She'd been awkward-looking at school, much like Draco, but she'd turned out very nicely when she grew into her features and figure. Beyond her good looks, though, there was something more, an edge he supposed, that made her stand out even in a crowd of more commercially-attractive women.

"So why didn't yours work out?" he asked when he could tell she had finished reading her article.

"He decided to sleep with my mother," Pansy replied, without any indication of finding that fact offensive. Theo was somewhat taken aback by this. From what he remembered, Mrs. Parkinson was a grotesque harpy with a voice that could send chills down anyone's back.

"…Oh; I thought you split up because of incompatible incomes."

"Not at all; money was not Wilfred's problem," she said with the slow, empathic relish of one who contradicts for the pleasure of the thing. "Wilfred was simply too much for one woman, or so he believed. He also slept with my cousin, my illegitimate sister who I didn't know about until my private detective found out that Wilfred was sleeping with her, and an elderly aunt who resides in Wales. I still haven't come up with a satisfactory reason for why he thought it was somehow more permissible for him to sleep with my relatives than strangers."

Theo was silenced for the time being, though his brain churned with the curiousness of the situation. Wilfred slept with her _mother? _How twisted was this guy? He sipped his coffee and wondered. Without him consciously realizing it his eyes dragged their way from his newspaper to Pansy again. God, she was looking well.

"Theo."

"Hm?" he contrived to conceal that he'd been admiring her with the ardency of an uninitiated schoolboy.

"Would you like to go to dinner with me tonight?"

A flood of happiness foamed inside of him, threatening to spill out onto his face at any moment. He feigned consideration though his mind was made up. A man must have some pride.

"I suppose that would be alright, as I don't have any other plans."

She smiled, bade him farewell in voluptuous accents appropriate to their social standing, and held out her hand for him to kiss. He did so with just the right amount of enthusiasm, murmuring that he was looking forward to the evening. Her smile turned positively devilish.

"I'm glad you finally decided that enough was enough with that shrew you were married to. I've been wanting to get my claws into you since school."

And with that she left as quickly as she'd come without seeming to hurry, her silk shining in the sun. He grinned and finished his coffee. This looked like it was going to be fun.

~000~

End Enough is Enough


	6. Fearless

**Fearless**

Harry Potter was universally blamed for just about everything that could be possibly twisted to include his presence. He was well and truly sick of this, but there didn't appear to be anything he could do about it. So when the Ministry was suddenly deprived of an expected annual donation from the fabulously wealthy Blaise Zabini, Harry was called before all the Ministers that could be assembled on short notice to take the blame.

The Minister of Revenue was a small man of more than 260 years of age. Needless to say, he was already fast asleep on the sofa provided for him. Prime Minister Shacklebolt gave him a tired look from behind his desk. Harry's eyes flicked to the third person in the room and inwardly howled when he saw that it was his most bitter enemy, the Minister of War. He never knew what it was that had made the Minister of War, Toby Burret, despise him so much. All he knew was that it is very hard to not hate someone who hates you.

"What do people think I've done now?" he asked after he'd shaken hands with Kingsley.

Kingsley explained the situation to him. Harry frowned, deciding that he was going to be here for a while. He sat down.

"What does this have to do with me? I don't have anything to do with the donations committees."

This denial was met with an outburst of bitter laughter from Toby, who reached into the pocket of his robes, which strained tightly across his considerable stomach, to pull out the Daily Prophet. He tossed it contemptuously at Harry. Harry opened it up and was not surprised to see that he was on the front page yet again. There was a picture of him and Blaise Zabini in a park, having some kind of argument.

He should have known that their stroll together gave rise to a considerable commentary from the press.

"Harry, can you explain this? Obviously you agitated Mr. Zabini to the point that he decided to cut us off, as we are associated with you."

"I didn't agitate him!"

But as he watched, his photograph self punched Blaise in the face with enough force to knock the blonde off his feet. He cleared his throat.

"Due to circumstances beyond my control I was forced to punch him in the face," Harry said in his most rational tone, trying as hard as he could to get the message across that his actions had not only been justified but necessary. Harry went on to say, "And I really do think that I should be allowed to explain the situation to the press-"

"I absolutely forbid it!" thundered the Minister of War, "You have done enough damage as it is!"

"How can I possibly be responsible for him not giving you money of his own free will? Associated with the you? What does that even _mean? _I have no title! I receive an annual salary to show up to meetings with foreign nations as a sort of silent consultant! What, exactly, do I do here? Hm? Why won't you answer me? Is that because my title is National Scapegoat? Is that it?"

He would have said more, but his temper reached the limit of inarticulate rage.

The door opened suddenly and Blaise Zabini came striding in, with Kingsley's frustrated secretary Miss Vance behind him trying to explain why he needed to wait outside. He was dressed in a suit that must have cost more than all the furniture in the room and somehow gave off a glow of wealth and power that was knee-weakening to behold.

He ignored everyone in the room but Shaklebolt, laying a slim envelope on his desk.

"I'm sorry if my donation is a few hours little later this year than usual. I had to withdraw more funds to compensate for the bet I had with Mr. Potter yesterday."

He left the room to general silence.

When the door shut behind him Harry pointed fearlessly at the Minister of War and proclaimed, "Ha!"

Harry left as soon as Kingsley mouthed that he was excused.

Blaise was waiting for him outside with the clearly infatuated Miss Vance, fiddling with his heavy, gleaming watch. There was no sign of the black eye Harry gave him yesterday, but Harry was too high on self-satisfaction to care too much.

"Aren't you going to thank me for saving your arse back there?"

"Nope," Harry responded, pausing in his path to the door. "I don't repay favors not involving life and death that I didn't ask for."

"What if all I wanted was a chance to argue with you again? Perhaps over a dinner and some wine? You do drink wine, correct?"

Harry was inordinately fond of wine but he wasn't going to tell Blaise that. It wasn't that he didn't want to have dinner with Blaise; in fact he would love to. Blaise was like something out of a romance novel: rich, handsome, and smoother than silk. All he had to do was snap his fingers and he'd be swimming in amorous would-be lovers.

However, it was in Harry's nature to fight and he recoiled from doing things people asked him to do.

"Why do you want to have a date? I seem to recall hitting you the last time we spoke and had that row about creature rights."

"I know. I found that exhilarating. Most people would be too afraid to disagree with me, much less strike me," Blaise stood and approached him, much like a wild cat would approach its next meal. Harry found himself swallowing against his will. There was a glint in Blaise's eye he found arousing and frightening at the same time.

"Come now, why don't you come out tonight? You don't even have to talk to me if you don't want to. You can just eat and drink to your heart's content while I admire you. You're very handsome, you know, even though you try very hard to hide it."

Harry was not aware that he was handsome or that he hid his apparent good looks. He forgot the presence of Miss Vance as he was backed into a corner. He forgot that they were not in private, but in the ante-room to the Prime Minister's office. So when Blaise bent his head and hypnotized Harry with his gorgeous eyes into kissing him, the Minister of War emerged from Shacklebolt's office.

He spotted them and fainted dead away.

Harry enjoyed dinner, and enjoyed the wine, and enjoyed arguing with Blaise about politics, the role of parents, a book they'd both read, and whether or not it was alright for a man to wear pink more than once a year.

The next morning he had no idea how it had happened, but he'd somehow ended up having sex with Blaise Zabini. And he enjoyed it very much.

~000~

End Fearless


	7. Guilty Pleasure

**Guilty Pleasure**

Marriage is hard. No one told her this when she was getting engaged, when she was going crazy making wedding plans, or when she was walking down the aisle to become a wife, a partner. Ginny didn't resent Harry, but only because she knew it was just as hard for him as it was for her.

The hardest part was waking up five years after that sunny June wedding and discovering that they weren't in love anymore. She was pregnant with their third child, so she shoved those thoughts away. What was the point of love in a marriage anyway? They were hardly unique. Lots of couples that got married during or shortly after the Second War were discovering the difference between lasting companionship and a desperate bid to avoid loneliness.

Harry was faithful to her even though they hadn't had sex in over two years (except for their anniversaries, when they were both so drunk it hardly counted). She didn't know why, since she had given him permission to seek companionship elsewhere as long as he was discrete and never let the kids find out. She supposed she couldn't act too surprised, though, as she hadn't sought anyone else out either. It was strange to even think about intimacy with someone new after all those years of nothing.

When Lily was old enough for Hogwarts, Ginny suddenly found herself with a lot of time on her hands. She'd taught the children their primary school education herself and copied her mother in having them assist her with chores around the house from toddlerhood. She was used to being near-constantly accompanied by at least one child.

After some discussion with Harry she decided to see if she could get an audition for a minor Quidditch league team. She didn't care which one. She was nearing forty now and had three children; she hadn't exercised seriously in years and her stomach and thighs were one big soft mess and utterly useless for keeping on a broom. She couldn't afford to turn her nose up at anyone.

The Salamanders were a mixed-sex team dominated by middle-aged players. During the audition, all Ginny was asked to do was fly in a circle around the field without falling off her broom and catch a Quaffle successfully. She was out of shape, but she passed those baby tests with ease.

The team was little better than Ron's beloved Chudley Cannons, but it was something to do and she made a little pocket money on the side. She got on with the other players with the single exception of Agatha Hampton. Agatha was as snooty as her name indicates and decided from day one that Ginny was a low-life. She didn't care that Ginny was a war hero. She didn't care that Ginny was married to _the _war hero. Agatha believed that Ginny was on the team for the sole purpose of seducing her insipid puppet of a husband Eugene.

Ginny was not in the least tempted by Eugene. Eugene was handsome in a flushed country stock sort of way, but she didn't feel any stirrings in her lower abdomen and paid him about as much attention as she would a worm.

As she was the only one of them who had played Quidditch before the Salamanders, she found herself an expert. With her input (and Harry's), the team improved quite a bit and began to win some of their games. Ginny felt proud of herself and used her involvement in Quidditch as a further bridge to build with her teenaged sons.

And then disaster hit. Or rather, Gabrielle Delacour decided to join the Salamanders. No one was quite sure why a gorgeous French immigrant would decide to join their team after her retirement from professional Quidditch, but no one was complaining. Ginny was initially excited about Gabrielle, as she had known her briefly in school and remembered liking her.

Gabrielle did things to her lower abdomen that a hundred Eugene Hampton's could not. And that isn't even the disastrous part. The really horrible part was that, the few times their eyes accidentally met, Ginny could see her own desire reflected back just as strongly in those bright blue eyes.

Even at thirty-seven, Gabrielle could have passed for twenty. She seemed to glow with beauty and poise, and rode her broom like a bird rides the wind. For obvious reasons, she had attracted quite a fan following during her days as a professional. Many of those fans followed her to the amateur league games. Their team began to become a little bit famous as their tactics further improved.

Ginny was lost in admiration. She even got warm squirmy feelings in her stomach from the simple sight of watching Gabrielle eat anything, be it a ham sandwich or a piece of fruit.

Harry had given her permission to supplement her love life; there was no reason why she shouldn't pursue Gabrielle. Except that Gabrielle was a woman, and somehow she didn't think that Harry would feel the same way about her with a woman as her with a man. So she resolved to let the fire burn out on its own and to avoid feeding it.

She lasted about a week before Gabrielle cornered her in their equipment shed and practically tore her blouse off. Gabrielle was much stronger than she looked. They gave no thought as to whether someone would hear them or walk in as they explored one another on the dusty floor.

Ginny had never enjoyed anything more in her life, nor felt as guilty.

Harry finally noticed that she couldn't meet his eyes anymore and demanded to know what the matter was. She tried to lie and pull the Women's Troubles card, but he wasn't fooled. She escaped before he could worry the truth out of her.

He'd been her husband for a long time and knew all her weaknesses. A bottle of white wine and a boyish smile two nights later and it all came tumbling out. To her shock, he was not angry, disgusted, or even annoyed with her. He just smiled and said,

"Thank god one of us is getting some."

Gabrielle became a regular guest at their house during the school year when the children were away. Neither of them wanted to spring Gabrielle on James or Albus, much less Lily. Gabrielle showed no signs of being offended and even laughed at the subterfuge and said that it made her feel like a child again.

Harry and Ginny officially moved into separate bedrooms, and on the third anniversary of their still title-less relationship, Gabrielle moved in with them.

~000~

End Guilty Pleasure


	8. Heavy in Your Arms

A/N: Title is taken from the song by Florence + the Machine.

**Heavy in Your Arms**

It was the night before the Final Task and Hermione couldn't sleep. She'd tossed and turned until one in the morning before remembering that if more than an hour went by like that, it was better to do something than to do nothing. She closed her curtains tightly and took out her current novel from its hiding place. It wasn't that she was embarrassed about reading for pleasure; it was that the novel was one of those formulaic Muggle murder mysteries with an impossibly competent and attractive female as the main character.

She hoped that reading the syrupy dialogue and predictable plot points would help lull her into a stupor deep enough to give her some rest. It was hard to keep her mind off of what Harry and Viktor would be facing in a few hours, no matter how hard she tried to get lost in the book.

Harry was so young, younger than her. He didn't deserve to be in the stupid, pointless tournament that had killed so many talented young people in the past.

It made her feel guilty, but even more than Harry she worried about Viktor. It wasn't that she didn't think he was competent. He was very smart and very strong, and fully capable of trying his hardest to stay alive where most people would panic. Still, she worried. Accidents happened and things could go horribly wrong. It didn't help that Voldemort had yet to attack. He always attacked, so it was only a matter of time before someone got killed again.

She hoped it wasn't Viktor. She knew it wouldn't be Harry. Harry always survived and, she liked to think, he always would.

Something creaked and she caught her breath. A quick Tempus revealed that it was three in the morning. There was a whisper of cloth and then a man was in her bed. His hand covered her mouth before she could scream. The smell of it, a mixture of earth, strong soap, and pine, quieted her even as he whispered,

"Don't worry; it is only me."

Viktor secured the curtains behind him and Hermione concealed her novel. He pulled off his hooded cloak and folded it neatly before placing it at the foot of her bed. His silence wasn't unusual, but the tension in his posture was. She opened her mouth to ask him if he was alright. Before the words could come out he had removed his shoes somehow and curled himself around her.

She was startled by the strength of his grip. She kept quiet, deciding to wait for him to speak. She didn't want to push him on tonight of all nights, even though she was dying to know how he had gotten here, much more how he knew where to go. She hadn't betrayed House secrecy and let him know a whisper of where she slept.

His fingers flexed against her stomach, awareness flooded her. She was wearing the thin nightgown her mother sewed her for Christmas and nothing underneath. She'd read a long time ago that it wasn't healthy to sleep in restrictive clothing, especially on the groin; something about the skin needing to "breathe".

She was regretting that now. It wasn't that she was uncomfortable with Viktor being this close to her when she was nearly naked. It was that her nightgown had hiked up under the covers somewhere around her waist, and she didn't want to shock his sensibilities should he decide to join her under the covers.

She squirmed, slipping a hand under the coverlet to straighten it. Viktor gripped tighter until she gave up and stilled.

Her concept of time slipped away into the night. She didn't know how long they lay there, she wide awake and tense and he with both arms and a leg around her. Finally she began to lose some circulation and reached down to touch his hand as a warning. He exhaled sharply against her neck but remained silent as she lifted his arm and scooted enough to the side, away from him, until she had enough room to lie on her back.

She jumped when he took this as an opportunity to slide closer and slowly lower his head between her breasts. He turned his face so that his cheek rested there on her breastbone and tucked his arms around her. He still hadn't said anything. She didn't know anymore if she wanted him to say anything at all.

After another interminable period of time had passed she realized he was asleep. He was very heavy but she didn't have the heart to move away from him. With a wry smile in the dark, she wrapped her arms around him loosely and waited. She knew now that there was no way she was going to get any sleep tonight.

At five a.m. she was forced to wake him and send him away so that he wouldn't get caught in the girl's dormitory. He was still speechless then. When he'd pulled on his cloak and shoes he leaned in and kissed her very carefully on the lips, one hand falling to rest gently on her waist.

And then he was gone as quietly and as suddenly as he'd come.

She settled back under the covers and dug out her novel. She had some more time to kill before she could get up without looking suspicious.

~000~

End Heavy in Your Arms


	9. It's Not Unusual

**It's Not Unusual**

~000~

It's not unusual for a powerful man (or woman, I suppose, in these modern times) to start a liaison with his secretary; or assistant; or clerk; or whoever you've got to fetch you coffee and listen to you whine. None but the most conservative of citizens would judge such affairs seriously, as they are very common and rarely last long.

Sometimes, though, these affairs turn into happy partnerships.

~000~

Reginald Sangrail, an old grey-haired politician whose politeness was full of cunning, was waiting for Kingsley in his office when he arrived that morning. Kingsley showed no surprise at seeing him, though he wondered how Reginald had gotten past Draco. Draco was an unusual person to work as a secretary, but he was very good at his job. Except this morning, it would seem. Draco was well aware that Kingsley despised Reginald and never would've let the man within a hundred yards of his office.

Come to think of it Draco hadn't been at his desk, either. He had innocently assumed that Draco was fetching himself some tea or some other errand and hadn't thought anything of it, but now he was concerned.

He sat down behind his desk, pretended to rearrange the papers on top of it while actually looking for his missing daily memos from Draco and not finding them, and then looked up and smiled. "What can I do for you?"

He would have to find Draco later.

By the time Reginald had finished tying verbal knots and tired of trying to trick Kingsley into signing a bill he did not want to sign, it was time for the daily meeting with the cabinet.

Kingsley frowned as he noticed that Draco was still not at his desk. For all of his surliness and prissiness that could rival the princess who minded a pea, Draco was his secretary and he was concerned.

~000~

"The dignity of our country is in danger! Almost every day some dastardly act of sabotage is laid bare. Just two days ago a postman confessed to drawing mustaches on the stamps depicting the queen 50,000 times to date."

Kingsley snorted.

The members of the cabinet were in the middle of a heated argument about something completely irrelevant to the issue when the door opened. The young gentleman who came into the room with a certain elegant haughtiness was not at all the cabinet's idea of a Minister's secretary. It was well known that Draco was disapproved of on principle, mostly because he didn't actually need to work and therefore had no right to.

Draco was looking a little ruffled. He sidled noiselessly down the side of the table and bent to whisper in Kingsley's ear.

"When you are finished here, we need to have a serious discussion about leaving me alone with the Minister of Denmark."

Kingsley kept a straight face and nodded seriously as though Draco had merely passed him a routine piece of information. Draco left as silently as he'd come. His exit inspired an equally unrelated argument about the state of secretaries these days. Kingsley finally managed to end the meeting at noon and made his way swiftly to his office, blowing off two people that tried to stop him and have a 'quick word' in the halls.

Draco was sitting on the sofa normally reserved for visitors, filing his nails.

Kingsley smirked at the sight but made sure that his amusement was nowhere in sight when he sat behind his desk. He folded his hands and assessed Draco. Draco was glaring at his nails as though they had mortally offended him, and made no move to speak.

"Alright, what happened?" Kingsley asked, impatient.

"She touched me."

Kingsley frowned, confused. "And? If you didn't want to shake hands with people, you shouldn't have decided to work for a politician. Honestly, Draco, we've had this discussion a million times. I _know_ that you dislike shaking greasy, cold, floppy hands-"

"I mean she molested me."

Kingsley stopped. He ran an assessing eye over Draco. It was well-established that Draco was attractive, but Kingsley had made a point of not noticing that to be professional. Well, unless Draco was standing under a sunbeam that made his hair become a halo, or unless Draco bit his knuckles in that captivating way when he was annoyed, or unless Draco leaned over him smelling like the garden of Paradise itself…

His thoughts wandered down a dangerous road.

Draco continued after a while, "Last night I escorted her to the exit like you asked, but she asked me by the doors if I knew of a good restaurant and I knew it would be easier to show her than to send her wandering the streets of London unaccompanied, so I went with her. When we arrived she asked me to eat with her, her treat, and because it was past six anyway I didn't see the harm in it. Everything was going alright, and she was nice and friendly but not too much. We had some wine with dinner. I liked her, so I wasn't on my guard. I'm guessing that she put something in my drink, because the next thing I knew I woke up in an empty hotel room that smelled like her, and I was naked."

Kingsley inhaled sharply, mostly at the political repercussions of this act and partly because of the mental image his mind supplied of a naked Draco.

"Oh dear."

"Yes. I'm sorry I was late to work today, but I didn't wake up until eleven and I was a bit…upset."

Kingsley got up and rounded his desk to sit beside Draco on the sofa. It was chintz, and had been in the office for as long as the portraits remembered. There was no way of telling how many people had sat on it, spilled on it, or how many Ministers had caught a quick sneaky nap.

He pulled Draco to his chest and tried to mimic what his mother always did to him when he was upset as a child. He ran his palm up and down Draco's back and murmured things like "It's alright now", and "There, there."

Fucking hell but Draco smelled nice.

He felt nice, too. The slim elegance of his well-maintained figure fit nicely against him, and no matter how Draco arranged himself he managed to look graceful and as though he absolutely intended to bend his arm at that awkward angle.

"I will deal with Bergliot myself."

Draco didn't respond. His chin was hooked over Kingsley's shoulder, and he made no move to pull away and go back to his work. Kingsley slouched to get comfortable and inadvertently pulled Draco further onto his lap. Draco mumbled something and wrapped his arms tightly around Kingsley's neck.

They stayed there for a long time, Kingsley frantically removing any remotely suggestive thoughts from his mind, never mind how nicely Draco rested on his thighs. He would be so easy to-

He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed Draco away as politely as he could. He was surprised to catch a split-second of vulnerability in those lovely gray eyes before the normal Draco mask was back.

"I'll get back to work now, sir. Thank you."

"No problem…" Kingsley trailed off, watching him leave. Just as Draco was at the door, he called, "Please don't sue me for sexual harassment!"

Draco snorted and actually gave him a quick smile, "I wouldn't dream of it."

Bergliot Snorrisson lost her position as Minister of Denmark, and Draco managed to sue her for more than half of her significant fortune. Despite being richer than ever, he continued to work as a secretary for Kingsley Shacklebolt. He arrived at work early and left late, and was never far from the Minister's side.

And one day, three years later, Draco handed Kingsley a packet and, instead of taking it, Kingsley grabbed his arm, pulled him to him, and kissed him soundly on the mouth. And Draco didn't protest one little bit. In fact, the packet was dumped on the floor like so much useless trash in favor of wrapping both long arms around Kingsley's thick neck and pressing the entire length of his body against that of his boss.

~000~

He continued to serve as Kingsley's secretary until Kingsley retired.

~000~

End It's Not Unusual

I know that it's been forever since I've updated this, but I promise to make an effort and finish it soon! Hopefully by the end of June this series will be wrapped up!


	10. Just Like That

**Just Like That**

~000~

It started out slow, with a sense of furtive uneasiness. Deadly smiles tossed her way like knives in the coffee room led to accidental brushes of those small pink hands against her form. Polite greetings became gradually more personal. Getting tea at the same time in the office kitchenette turned into nipping off to a café for a chat and a laugh.

The feelings came suddenly. One day, just like that, Lavender found herself in love.

She had no ideas about what sexuality ought to be or not to be. She had mostly gone out with lads, but had tried women more than a few times during her University years and found them to be just as good. Better, even, in certain respects.

Pansy was gorgeous. It really shouldn't have been such a surprise to find her heart beating faster when she saw her sitting at her desk, or to find her mouth dry whenever Pansy crossed and uncrossed her pretty little legs that always looked so smooth…!

Lavender was not in the habit of working late. She was a serial heartbreaker and usually went out several nights a week with a paramour. When there was no eager person waiting for her, she went to bed early to keep her face looking beautiful and her energy lively.

Lately, since her revelation about her co-secretary Pansy, she had been going to bed early more often than not. But tonight she was immersed in a very important project that simply could not be continued tomorrow. It had to be tonight. The Ministry of Records had cut back their staff recently, and as the most junior employee most of the work went to Lavender. She was given more projects than she could handle. There was so much to file, so much to sort! She was getting overwhelmed with it all, and would have quit if she didn't need the money.

She was so engrossed that she was unaware of Pansy's presence in the office. The others had left one by one and two by two and she'd thought herself alone.

Up to her chin in paperwork, she stopped to rub her eyes. She wasn't used to working straight like this for hours at a time, and wondered if she would have the stamina to make it through the night.

"Are you very tired, dear?"

She started and looked up to find Pansy standing there like an angel of kindness, two mugs of steaming coffee in her hands.

"Would you like a hand?"

"Oh, yes, thank you!" Lavender gushed, smiling and relieved for the company. She had never liked to be alone. Sometimes she wondered if her heartbreaking had something to do with her desire for company and variety at the same time.

Pansy rolled over her chair and sat. Lavender explained to her the sorting process, what to look for, and what went in which piles. Pansy soaked it up and then got to work. They chattered as they went about silly co-workers and commiserated with one another over how many of their friends were getting married all at once.

They finished at two in the morning. Lavender closed the last filing box and sent it on its way to records with a flick of her wand. She watched it go, slowly becoming aware of how close Pansy was standing. She could feel the subtle heat rising from her body and smell the soft musky scent she wore. Somehow Pansy could be sexy without seeming to try very hard at all. It was a series of little things that all built up to make Lavender want to do things to her she hadn't done to anyone in years.

In some ways it would have been easier to be attracted to Pansy if she didn't like Pansy as a person so much. Despite the bitch she'd been at school, Pansy had turned out to be a genuinely lovely person. She was clever and though a bit mean when she gossiped, she was overall very nice. She made Lavender comfortable in herself, and gave the impression that Pansy felt at ease with her as well.

"Lav?"

"Hm?"

"You're tired, and I'm tired, and tomorrow is a Friday. What do you say we have a sleepover and blow off work until noon?"

Lavender had no idea if Pansy was insinuating what she hoped Pansy was insinuating, but she agreed.

As it turned out, Pansy was as attracted to Lavender as Lavender was to Pansy.

~000~

It was still night when she woke from a restless sleep (the coffee had confused her nerves), feeling something missing. Pansy had gotten up to do something or other. Pansy padded back into the room, a robe thrown over her nudity. She knelt on the carpet beside the bed and stroked Lavender's cheek.

"I like you, Lavender. I like you a lot."

Lavender could do nothing but smile. She was so happy to hear that that she almost offered to…but no, she was too sleepy. Pansy smiled back and kissed her before getting up and going off again. It was almost dawn when Lavender woke again, and she hadn't done more than doze in Pansy's absence. Her newfound happiness lulled her into restful slumber at last.

When she woke for good, Pansy was asleep beside her. Ink stained her fingers.

Lavender let her know when she was going for the office, and Pansy nodded sleepily and mumbled that she had taken a sick day.

Lavender found her desk utterly pristine. The backlog of projects she was expected to do had been tidily disposed of. Just like that. It was as though a rescuing fairy godmother from a Muggle story had appeared and taken away all of Lavender's troubles.

Pansy's scent lingered.

~000~

End Just Like That

Pansy? Nice? I wanted to try it out.


	11. Kainotophobia

**Kainotophobia**

~000~

_Kainotophobia- the fear of change_

~000~

James was graduating as third in his class, the finest Quidditch Seeker Hogwarts had had since 1759, and a Prefect. He had his Auror apprenticeship all lined up, starting the first day of August, and knew a man who had assured him he would do very well, considering his ground-breaking marks in DADA. He was dating the most beautiful girl in school. His parents were so proud of him it actually made him sick sometimes.

Dumbledore even said that they were finally breaking through the Dark Lord's defenses, gaining back the ground they'd been losing.

Everything was just right.

But James wasn't happy. He went through the motions of his daily routine, smiled, and made sure to tell Lily she was gorgeous at least twice a day so she would know he still cared. None of it was genuine. James hadn't been happy for over a month now.

He couldn't put his finger on when the feeling of unease had first manifested, but the presence of the sensation couldn't be denied. He felt it in his sleep, when he was in the bath, when he was with his mates, and even when he was snogging Lily. He'd tried to get rid of it every way he knew how. He flew more than usual. He drank more Firewhiskey than he should have. He even talked to a counselor, albeit in secret.

Nothing helped. All he knew was that something, somewhere, was not right.

The night before graduation, after the secret going-away party the seventh-years held in the Hufflepuff common room, he realized what it was. He sat straight up in bed, hand over his mouth. It was so obvious he had completely overlooked it. Change. That was what was wrong.

Even as a small child he had never liked change. Change meant leaving good things behind, facing new challenges, and discomfort. Change meant growing up.

Change meant no more second chances.

…A second chance at what? He frowned, levering himself back down amongst the pillows. His head ached from his sudden movement, alcohol sloshing around the basin of his skull unpleasantly. He had done everything a boy could possibly do to get the most out of being young. He'd even tried drugs, Muggle and Magical.

His subconscious shifted his head to the side, facing the closed curtains of Sirius' bed. he frowned again, and then felt his gorge rise. Apparently the sudden movement from before was going to have more serious consequences than he'd expected. He quickly clambered out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom.

He barely missed the sink, half of his bile splattering onto the floor. He grasped the sink, breathing heavily, and retched again.

When he'd finished he cleaned the mess and brushed his teeth. A faint taste of bile remained, so he took a borrowed swig of Sirius' mouth wash. As he was gargling a thought occurred to him. Was this what Sirius would taste like?

He choked and spat the mouth wash down the drain. What the fuck? Why was he wondering about what Sirius would taste like? It wasn't like he had any intention of kissing him. He had a girlfriend, a lovely one that he had vague plans to marry once his Auror training was over and he started making a regular salary.

Thinking about Sirius, another boy, was completely ridiculous. He was just drunk. He pushed the thoughts away and lay down in bed again. The bathroom was left sparkling, no sign of his accident remaining.

He closed his eyes and began to doze off. He was very near sleep when he began to fantasize about kissing someone with long dark hair. It was very nice, and he let himself dream a little. There was nothing wrong with an occasional fantasy.

"James?"

He blinked awake. Sirius was standing over him, silhouetted by the moon.

"Did I wake you?"

James mumbled something, rubbing his mouth with his sleeve. His mouth was dry. He reached down for the glass of water he kept on the floor beside his bed and drank.

"Yeah, of course you woke me. It's…" he looked at his clock, "three in the fucking morning!"

"Sorry," Sirius, instead of going back to his own bed like a decent person, crawled into James' bed and closed the curtains around them. Only a sliver of moonlight shone through the crack like a blue blade. "I just couldn't sleep. I'm nervous about tomorrow."

James patted his leg somewhat awkwardly, his earlier thoughts making their presence known. "Don't worry; we've rehearsed the ceremony and everything. I know your parents might show up and try to cause a scene; my parents have already agreed to defend your rights to be emancipated in court if need be."

"That's not what's worrying me, even though I appreciate your parent's offer. I…this is going to sound really stupid and first year of me, but I'm kind of afraid of what's going to happen after we leave Hogwarts. Yeah, we'll be Aurors and still be Marauders and everything, but I still feel…scared."

James, under normal circumstances, would have swept away Sirius' words like chaff and salved his worries. It was what best friends did. But tonight he couldn't. Maybe it was the alcohol; maybe it was because it was the middle of the night. Tonight he took Sirius seriously and softly said,

"I feel the same way."

"You do?"

He felt Sirius shuffle closer in the darkness and crawl under the covers with him, settling his head beside James' on the pillow.

"Yeah."

"Is it okay if I sleep here with you tonight? I know we haven't done it since third year, but it's our last night…"

James turned to face him, putting a hand under the pillow, "I don't mind. I agree. It's our last night, and we may as well."

Sirius smiled. James could barely distinguish him in the gloom and without his glasses.

"I'm going to miss this."

"Which part?" James prodded, feeling Sirius' foot slide accidentally against his calf beneath the covers.

"This part. When will we ever get the chance to share a bed again without it being really uncomfortable?"

James snorted, "You mean it isn't now? A pair of straight adult men sleeping together?"

Sirius didn't respond. James found himself going over what he'd said. He _wasn't _uncomfortable. In fact, he really liked having Sirius sleep with him. He'd always liked it when they were little. It made him feel like he had a brother. Somehow it didn't feel quite so brotherly tonight, especially when Sirius kept wriggling around and brushed against him.

"James?"

"Yes?"

"What's wrong? You got really quiet."

"Nothing," James cleared his throat and shifted to lie on his back, "I'm just a little drunk still."

There was a long pause, and then Sirius whispered, "Alright. Good night, Prongs."

"Goodnight, Padfoot."

There was another pause, and then he felt Sirius move again. A hand came to rest on the far side of his head. He was aware that Sirius was hovering over him in the dark; he could feel his warm breath wafting against his cheek.

"Sirius, what-"

Sirius kissed him. It wasn't a long or even particularly spectacular kiss; it was a kiss that changed quite a few things, though. James really _liked _this kind of change.

~000~

End Kainotophobia


	12. Lucky

**A/N: **I've been informed that I fucked up and wrote 'Seeker' instead of 'Chaser' last chapter. Sorry about that!

**Lucky**

The Order was having a reunion. It was the eighth anniversary of Voldemort's demise, and what remained of Dumbledore's exclusive circle gathered in their old headquarters, Grimmauld Place.

Tonks almost didn't go. She hadn't gone the past two years.

Remus was a good man, the best man she knew if she was being honest. When she'd married him she did so as a woman very much in love and fully aware of the consequences of living with a Werewolf. It seemed silly now to look back and realize that she'd naively believed that his lycanthropy was the greatest barrier in their relationship.

The greatest barrier turned out to be that he wasn't a woman.

She'd experimented with her sexuality when she was young, but her love life sort of fell apart in favor of bigger concerns when the War (unacknowledged though it was at the time) descended like a thunderhead over everything. And then she'd met Remus. Remus was the first man in years that she'd felt attracted to, and he was so good to her, so noble and gentle and understanding. She married him believing that her days of skirt-chasing were behind her. She believed that her mother had been right all along. She just needed to meet the _right_ man.

They were happy together in spite of the War. She became pregnant, and was delighted when their son inherited her gift and Remus' wolfishness. Her husband had been uncomfortable about passing along his curse, diluted or otherwise, but she thought their little cub was the sweetest thing she'd ever seen.

It was when the War ended that the troubles began. She hadn't realized how little time she had to _think _until suddenly she had the time again. A flood of held-back thoughts and emotions drowned her.

She held out for another year, until her son's third birthday, ignoring the nagging unease and keeping her smile bright. But she couldn't ignore the thoughts forever. She'd made a mistake. She'd made a horrible mistake.

The worst part was that Remus was so good. He listened. He understood. He cared.

She felt like the lowliest slime of sewage. How could she have let herself make this mistake, to lead this wonderful man on? Had she ever really been attracted to him, or had her pent-up sexual frustration discovered an outlet in him and deceived her senses?

Their separation was amicable, but created a fire storm with their friends. The disappointment on her mother's face told her that her mother knew exactly why they chose to end their marriage.

Teddy was split between them evenly. Tonks did her best to avoid ever actually seeing Remus. It hurt too much to see the ill-concealed betrayal on his face. He still loved her, and told her the night she left to live with her mother that he would wait for her if she ever felt anything for him again.

After the separation she stayed away from the single scene. It was ironic that the reason she had broken up a good marriage held no temptation for her. She couldn't help it. She was too depressed to go out and pick up random women, no matter what they looked like.

She ended up having a casual fling with a transfer from Wales at work. That'd been last year.

In the end she decided to get over herself and face Remus like a responsible adult. It'd been a long time since she'd seen some of the Order members anyway, and she was tired of stilting her social life just because she was afraid to meet her ex-husband's eyes.

~000~

She confused her coordinates and ended up on the second floor of the house. She took a moment to collect herself and wait for her blushing hair to turn back to the faint teal color she'd selected for the day. She'd mostly given up changing her hair color outside of entertaining her young son. It seemed juvenile for a woman in her thirties to go parading around with rainbow hair. Just for today, though, she'd given into her urge and colored it a pale blue-green that made her skin look fresh and her eyes bright.

She was nervous about seeing Remus, and anxious to look well.

A burst of energy flooded through her. She gave into it and ran down the hall for the stairs.

~000~

Downstairs the Order had mostly arrived and settled into their usual mingling patterns. The children ran around playing a game of tag, getting underfoot and tripping anyone not on their guard. Hugs were exchanged and exclamations made about how well everyone was looking.

Luna had arrived with Harry and Ginny and their children. She took time from her research in Antarctica every year to be at this reunion. It was important to her to remember the sacrifices and to see old friends she wouldn't otherwise keep in contact with. It was amazing to her that every year another one of them was married, or had a child, or was retiring. Everyone was changing, had changed, so much in the past eight years.

Luna extricated herself from a conversation with Andromeda that was quickly turning into an inquisition about why she was still single. She was pushing her way through the throng, heading for the bathroom when there was a distant crash.

Tonks came clattering down the stairs, slipped, and almost fell at their feet like a supplicant in some ancient city full of injustice, but retrieved her balance- only to crash into the poker and tongs.

"Oh!"

She collected herself and cast a charm to clean up the soot and straighten the fire implements. The stunned silence broke, and she was welcomed with open arms. Luna stood back, plans to hide in the loo forgotten for the time in lieu of getting an eye-ful of Tonks.

She hadn't seen Tonks in years, and hadn't really thought about it much the last time she had.

Tonks was looking well. Tonks was looking extremely well, even flushed and embarrassed as she was. Luna felt her mouth begin to dry and decided to go to the loo after all.

She drank some water from the faucet and then wet the edge of the towel and patted her cheeks and the back of her neck with it. Luna had never been in a stable relationship. At school most boys (and girls) had been scared off by her weirdo reputation, and those that hadn't were hardly desirable. After graduation she moved around so much that she had only made a grand total of three new friends in the past eight years, and all of them were men.

Luna wasn't attracted to men. She used to think that it was simply because she hadn't been exposed to them properly, but that didn't explain her gut-tightening reaction to women. She hadn't been with any women either, but she knew which one she preferred. And right now Tonks was the embodiment of every single separate trait Luna considered attractive. She was even clumsy.

Someone knocked on the door. She collected herself and, vague smile in place, rejoined the party.

She was largely bored and ate more than she should have just to have something to do. She drank quite a bit too. The party began to quiet as the aging members took off for home, and then died when those with children took them off to bed. Luna was left with Kingsley, Tonks, and Remus. She noticed that Remus was ignoring Tonks in favor of talking to Kingsley.

Tonks finished saying goodbye to someone through the fireplace and then turned. She assessed the situation and decided to sit beside Luna. She didn't want to leave just yet; it would look suspicious.

Forcing a chuckle, she said, "I'm glad I didn't land on anybody when I tripped my way in here."

"I guess you're just lucky," came Luna's curious, almost pleased voice. Her voice was so soft it seemed rather like a subtle touch, like the merest touch of a mouse's paw, and a sensation rather than a sound. Tonks felt arousal coil through her stomach and a flush creep up her neck. She gave herself a tan to hide it. Luna blinked at her slowly with her big gray eyes.

Tonks swallowed and thought that it might be best to excuse herself before she did something foolish. When she realized that, glancing at Remus' suddenly tense posture, he could probably smell her every hormone she felt completely humiliated and stood.

"I'm tired, and I can't get my head straight."

She stopped, surprised at Luna's remark. It was followed by a request.

"Would you floo me home, please, Tonks? My aim is wobbly when I've been drinking."

Tonks took the opportunity to escape and cop a feel.

"Sure, of course. Here, let me help you up."

Luna took her hand and stumbled into her. Tonks put her arms around her to steady her, reveling in the wild herbal scent of Luna. "I'm off, guys! Kingsley, you look great and congratulations on the promotion. Remus, it was really nice to see you again. Maybe we can take Teddy to the zoo together next weekend?"

Remus looked surprised, but smiled at her. She realized that she really wouldn't mind going to the zoo with him. They had been friends before lovers. Maybe it was time to reconnect with him.

Luna shifted her weight and Tonks flushed. She was still standing there in the middle of the parlor with her arms around another woman. She grinned goodbye and then asked Luna what hotel to call into the Floo.

There was the flash of green fire, a whirl, and then they tumbled out of a hotel fireplace and onto the short sand-colored carpet. Tonks was on top of Luna. Luna smiled up at her, her expression screaming how much she absolutely did not mind having Tonks there. Tonks' mind quickly reassessed the situation and her perception of Luna's intelligence.

"Oh, you tricked me!"

Luna lazily dragged a fingertip down Tonks' spine.

"You can leave if you want to."

The finger was joined by its fellows, and she splayed her hand across Tonks' lower back, one finger brushing the bare skin where her shirt had separated from her slacks. Tonks let instinct take over. Luna was a consenting adult and obviously interested. Their level of sobriety was probably about equal, too.

Luna kissed her.

It would appear that Tonks was going to get lucky tonight.

~000~

End Lucky

I know a lot of stories have the man going gay and leaving his wife, so I wanted to write a female version. And come on. No way is Tonks straight, except maybe for someone as awesome as Remus.


	13. Munificence

**Munificence**

~000~

_Munificence: very liberal or giving; generous_

~000~

"It is very generous of you to let me stay here," Viktor's accent wasn't as thick as George remembered it being all those years ago when Hogwarts held the TriWizard Tournament. Not that George had spent much time talking to the Bulgarian Seeker. He'd been too busy playing pranks and figuring out why he wasn't as keen as Fred was about girls.

He smiled and waved a hand, "It's nothing. What's the point of a guest room if you never have guests, right?"

Viktor nodded, "That is true. If you don't mind, where is your lavatory?"

George gave him a quick tour on the way to the lav and then left Viktor to his business. He went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He then resigned himself to the usual hunt for the biscuit tin. Why he couldn't just remember to put it back in the cupboard when he was done with it was a mystery he would never solve.

In the lavatory, Viktor opened the medicine cabinet and made a casual inspection of the various potions and pills inside of it.

The chain of events that'd led to Viktor Krum, the world's most famous Seeker, staying at his flat above his joke shop in Diagon Alley is a strange one. Viktor, being extremely famous, naturally had his fair share of crazed fans. Recently, however, an anonymous fan had crossed the line from fanatic to would-be murderer after Viktor's team lost to Ireland. When his hotel room was somehow trashed without anyone identifying or catching the culprit, Viktor hired a second bodyguard and started booking rooms separate from his team mates. He didn't want the wrath of his ex-fan to spread to them.

A brick was hurled through his window last night. Viktor decided that staying at a public hotel was no longer an option for him. He contacted Hermione and asked her if she would be willing to put him up a week, or if she knew anyone trustworthy who could.

With a baby in the house and a jealous husband on top of it, Hermione was unable to accommodate him. She referred him first to Harry, who also had to decline because a friend of Ginny's was currently staying in their only guest room, hiding from her husband. He was referred to three other friends before George Weasley heard about the trouble from Ginny and volunteered. George lived alone and said he wouldn't mind the company.

Viktor Krum and his two bodyguards, Boris and Ivan (neither of whom spoke a word of English), came to visit. Boris proclaimed the location secure enough. George Weasley had an incredible array of security wards surrounding his property because his flat doubled as his laboratory. He couldn't afford people breaking in and stealing his inventions.

It wasn't a large flat, but George's sofa folded out into a bed big enough for Boris and Ivan to share and the kitchen was bigger than the common area.

Viktor attended practice with his team from 6 until 2. Afternoons were spent sitting around the flat. Viktor couldn't afford to walk around in public for fear of an assault. He didn't know how he was going to stay sane. The Aurors were working as hard as they could trying to rat out his militant ex-fan, but until then he was no better than a prisoner.

George was a good host. He didn't crowd him and left him to his own devices most of the time.

Viktor wished George would crowd him. Once upon a time he had wanted to marry Hermione. It was partly because she was intelligent, funny without meaning to be, and beautiful. It was also partly because he was afraid he would never love a woman again. He had been right, but Hermione eventually ended things between them and married someone else.

His attraction to George didn't make itself known until his third day at the flat. Boris was in the shower and Ivan was half asleep eating his cereal. George poured him some milk at his request and gave him a sleepy smile.

"How do you like Britain so far?"

It took Viktor some time to answer. He had just then noticed that George's eyes were blue. Paler than enamel and brighter than the sky, they stuck out like two chips of lapis lazuli. He drank some milk to whet his throat.

"I have not seen very much of it, but the pitch is adequate and your flat is comfortable."

George laughed, "Oh, sorry; I'm not quite awake yet. I'll try to make less obvious small talk from now on. Here: does the bedroom suit you?"

Viktor grinned, "Oh yes. It is the finest of British establishments; very much worth the Portkey fee from Bulgaria."

George gave a little bow, "I am pleased to hear it. Anyway, I've got to go look into the shop now. See you at dinner tonight! Try to think of what kind of take-away you'd like."

Viktor watched him go, sizing him up for the first time. George was tall and had a fair amount of muscle tone. Viktor knew that he took an hour-long run every morning. He wondered what George's bare legs looked like. Ivan cleared his throat.

"Boss?"

"Yes?"

"If you want to pursue that man, you have my support."

Viktor felt embarrassed. Had he been too obvious? Had George noticed Viktor looking at him too closely?

~000~

That night they sat at the kitchen table drinking lager and eating American-style pizza. Viktor was seated beside George. George was telling some very funny stories, and Viktor did his best to translate them accurately for Boris and Ivan's benefit. It was partly out of generosity and mostly to distract Ivan. Viktor didn't want Ivan paying too much attention to the way Viktor kept glancing at George. He tried not to, but his eyes didn't want to be controlled. They wanted to look at George, and so they did.

After dinner Boris went to the living room to perform some floor exercises, as was his custom, while Ivan did a patrol of the flat every twenty minutes. When not patrolling he read his textbook. Ivan was taking a long-distance course in English.

This left George and Viktor relatively alone together. Viktor found that, since noticing how handsome George was, he was a bit tongue-tied. He had never been a talkative man, but now he was silent. George didn't seem to mind the quiet. Every now and again he would make a remark, or a joke, and Viktor was respond and then they were quiet again.

It was pleasant; he did not often have a chance to be alone with a man. In Bulgaria Viktor lived with his unmarried sister. He didn't like to think of her out there alone. There were groups of bandits that practiced dark magic that roamed the towns, and he didn't want her living alone. A friend came to stay with her when he was away at tournaments, but still he worried. It was his love for his sister that kept him living with her even though it did not provide him the privacy he would have liked. It was hard to bring men home. He felt like he was setting a bad example for her, even though she was twenty years old and perfectly capable of making up her own mind. He wanted her to form relationships out of love, not loneliness like he did.

Thinking of his sister made him worry again about her safety. Were the wards being maintained? Was she leaving work before dark?

Some of his anxiety must have shown on his face because George lightly touched his arm.

"Are you alright, Viktor?"

"Oh yes. It is only…I am thinking of my sister."

At a gesture from George he explained, and George nodded. "I can understand how you feel. Ginny is married now, but back when we were at Hogwarts and she was dating boys left and right, it was really hard for me to let her make her own decisions about that sort of thing."

"I am sorry; my sister is more timid. She does not have many boyfriends."

They descended back into silence. George ate a biscuit and Viktor just let his mind wander. It wandered onto the topic of George more often than he'd like. George smelled nice, now that he was paying attention. He turned to him and caught George giving him an unmistakable assessing look.

George turned redder than his hair and quickly looked away. Viktor waited ten more minutes and then said his goodnights. He lay in bed awake for a long time, plotting. Lusting after George alone was one thing. Reciprocation was another thing entirely.

~000~

The next day he contrived to sit beside George at breakfast. He avoided Ivan's amused look and rested his foot against George's beneath the table. George choked on his toast and Viktor patted him against the back, his face a perfect mask of innocent concern.

On his way out the door he timed his exit with George's so that they stood closely beside one another in the tiny entryway. George's ears turned pink when Viktor leaned in close to reach his coat, which hung on a hook behind George.

"Um…"

"Good-bye, George. I will see you tonight!"

"Uh-huh."

Viktor left with a smile on his face.

That evening at dinner he arranged his chair so that it was closer to George's, ostensibly so that he could sit sideways and cross his ankle over his knee. When Ivan and Boris excused themselves he asked George why he wasn't seeing anyone.

"What? Oh, well…" the pink was back. Viktor was starting to like seeing him blush. It made him look like a boy, not a man in his early thirties. "I just don't see the point in messing around anymore. I try not to go out with people I don't genuinely like."

"What sort of people do you like?" Viktor asked. He dropped the light tone and let a hint of raspiness enter his voice. George threw him a quick look and turned even redder. He fiddled with his shirt.

"I don't know. I don't have a _type_, per se." George pulled at his hair and then ran his fingers vigorously through it. "Merlin my head aches. I might have over-exerted myself with the inventing today. I think I ought to make an early night of it."

Viktor nodded. He waited until George was in the doorframe before saying, "Sleep well, and have pleasant dreams, my friend."

An almost imperceptible shiver went through George. "Thank you. I will."

Viktor smiled. He knew he wasn't the only lonely person in the world, and George was definitely desirous of company. Now if only Viktor could convince him that he was the right person for the job, preferably before he had to leave.

He went to his room and tried to read a Quidditch manual he'd been recommended. The words all ran together and the diagrams made no sense. He put away the book with disgust. There was a soft knock on his door. He started and then called, "Who is there?"

"It's me, George."

Viktor sat up. "Come in!"

George entered. The moment he opened his mouth, an explosion rocked the building. George went tumbling to the floor with a startled shout. Viktor seized his wand and dashed to the window. There was the thudding of footsteps on the stairs, and then the front door blasted open.

He could hear Boris' thick voice growl something in Russian. He went into the hall and caught sight of a wizened figure. It was a cripple of something kind, blind in one eye. His good eye glowered hatefully at Viktor.

"You failure!"

And then Viktor knew exactly who the intruder was. Rage roared through him as he remembered George's cry. What right did this man have to sabotage an innocent man's dwelling, to wreak havoc on Viktor's nerves with silly threats and projectiles? He surged forward and knocked him to the floor. Ivan pulled him off of the intruder and grabbed the cripple by the neck. Ivan dragged him into the living room and instructed Viktor to call the Aurors because Viktor could speak English.

George had gotten to his feet and followed them, looking disoriented, disgruntled, and above all irritated.

Viktor finished his firecall. He saw George standing up and quickly began casting all of the physical diagnostic charms he knew. George's left knee was bruised and he'd jammed a finger, but was otherwise unharmed.

The intruder was tied to a chair from the kitchen. He glared viciously at them but thankfully remained silent. Viktor wasn't sure what he'd do if the bastard opened his mouth. He supposed that, on some level, he had to be grateful to him. If he'd never gone into hiding, he never would've stayed with George.

The Aurors arrived, and they all went in for questioning.

~000~

Due to the court process, Viktor stayed in Britain for a month after the arrest. His coach tried to convince him to come and stay with his team mates again now that he was safe, but he turned them down. He said that changing rooms so close to the game would destroy his concentration, which was already rattled from the whole incident.

George didn't complain. Boris handed in his notice, preferring to leave before he was fired. Ivan left them to their own devices in the evenings after dinner.

They had many long talks, and many more silences.

At the end of the week George moved close when Viktor moved close. The day Viktor would've left were it not for the court case, George smoothed his hair out of his eyes and asked him if he had thought about cutting it, for the sake of being more aerodynamic.

Viktor didn't answer, choosing instead to take hold of George's hand and not release it until it was time to say goodnight. Two more nights of hand holding led to George leaning in outside of Viktor's bedroom and kissing him cautiously on the mouth. Viktor smiled and good night.

Ivan took a night off a few days after that, and they were left completely alone for the first time.

Viktor made the first move but George was the one that suggested they move to one of their bedrooms where they would be more comfortable.

~000~

Finally, it was time for Viktor to go. Ivan was already downstairs in the shop waiting, and Viktor lingered in the flat with his arms around George. He was trying to memorize the sensation of holding him close and smelling his scent and seeing his face.

They spoke between kisses.

"When's your next visit to Britain?"

"Not for another six months."

"Fuck! I don't know if I can wait that long."

Viktor ran his thumb across George's cheek in silence for some time, and then softly suggested, "You could come with me. Close up shop for a few weeks, or put an apprentice in charge."

"I'd like to, but I just…I just can't. I'd come back to a hole in the ground and a lot of rubble."

Viktor snorted, "I don't doubt it. I am sorry."

George kissed him with new ferocity. Viktor pulled him close so that their bodies pressed together from their thighs to their shoulders. George made a low, pleased sound, and wrapped his arms around Viktor's torso just beneath his armpits.

Viktor ended the kiss gradually, pecking at George's lips for a long time after their breathing had subsided once more.

"You are a _very _generous host, George. I think I will enjoy staying with you again."

~000~

End Munificence

I missed a couple of days. Rats. I broke my update-every-day streak.


	14. Newspaperman

**Newspaperman**

~000~

Harry Potter was considered lucky by the populace for a number of reasons, most of them connected to his skills in defying death. However, there was one large and important area in which this luck failed him. He was unlucky in love. He had tangled with so many cruel, foolish, and downright crazy people that he thought he must have started some kind of record. How many people under the age of thirty had been assaulted in various ways by eighteen separate people they were in love with?

By his thirtieth birthday he had made a vow of celibacy for his own safety and stuck to it despite the misery that resulted. It simply wasn't safe for him to even sleep with a stranger.

So when Luna approached him with a request that he help her with the Quibbler, he was willing for any distraction. Anything to keep him from sitting alone at night after work staring at his Muggle television set.

"So…what, exactly, do you expect from me? Money? A location for your headquarters?"

"Don't be stupid. I expect you to write, of course!"

This was how Harry Potter became a journalist. He hadn't wanted or expected to become one, unlike many who spend their lives in that pursuit, but Luna was a very convincing woman when she ignored everything he said and whirled things so quickly that he found himself doing what she wanted without knowing quite how.

The Quibbler was not a respected publication and had less than a dozen real readers. Nonetheless, Luna did not want to be the sole contributor after the death of her father and set out to recruit writers. At the time the above conversation (if you can call it that) took place, Harry had been between jobs and recovering from the break-up with Lucas.

On his first day he asked what she wanted him to write about and was told to jot down whatever came to mind; if she didn't think she could publish it she'd have him write something else and something else until she found something she liked.

This was not encouraging advice, especially since he had always dreaded writing essays and reports for school and the Auror Department. Still, he had never been the sort to back down from a challenge (as Lucas was full evidence of).

He wrote about a book he'd read recently, agonizing over the thesis and structure of the essay until he was half-satisfied. He bit half of his fingernails to the quick while he waited for Luna to finish reading it. She shook her head.

"This doesn't sound like you. I want you to write something personal but keep it anonymous. I've decided to have you write the Fiction column."

He frowned as he thought that over, "Wait, why am I writing something personal for the Fiction column?"

"Because they won't know that it didn't really happen. Happy writing!"

Harry sat for a while on the lumpy sofa in her living room, the pad of paper heavy in his lap, deep in thought. Slowly, he began to write.

He wrote about how he met Lucas, hindsight revealing all kinds of signs of his later-revealed psychotic tendencies that his attractive face and killer body had distracted him from at the time. He wrote about how good the sex was, going into considerable detail before realizing that he had begun to write what could only be called pornographic and forced himself to stop. Once he'd finished scratching out most of the details he'd written down, he wrote about how the signs that Lucas (here called Luke for the sake of decency) was not quite sane manifested themselves, and finally he finished with as detailed an account of the disastrous end their affair came to as he could bear.

The rest of his fingernails were chomped while Luna read this one. When she was done she smiled, pinched his cheek, and said that it would do just fine.

And that is how Harry ended up writing variations on the many deeply-unsuitable people he'd dated in the past. He took more care to disguise identities as the readership of the Quibbler began to expand (due in part to his articles, but also to the new Celebrity Gossip and Current Affairs columns, both of which were written jointly by a pair of siblings named Norman and Cymbeline Cunningham, both of which possessed an uncommon skill for summing up facts and making fun of people), but was as true to life as he dared. As the months turned to a year, then two years, he began to feel something like catharsis.

Tension he hadn't known he was carrying with him began to melt off in chunks and he felt lighter and younger than he had since he killed Voldemort.

He was enjoying a few beers with Luna to celebrate the Quibbler readership's expansion past the five thousand mark when Luna laid her hand on his arm and said,

"I have a confession."

"Oh really?" he took a gulp of beer to brace himself, as one never knew what sort of thing Luna was going to confess to, and gestured for her to go on. The Cunninghams were safely engaged in one of their many sibling arguments and weren't paying them any attention whatsoever.

"I tricked you into writing about your personal life because I heard that it's very therapeutic and I was worried about you. I know I promised you that I wouldn't make you go to a shrink or interfere, but I really do think that this has been good for you."

Harry wanted very badly to be angry about having his personal business intruded into, but he had to be grateful. There was no telling what he would have done if he'd kept all those stories bottled up inside. Sometimes he thought that he might even be ready to try his luck again, this time using all the signs he'd compiled and sorting out the crazies before he went to bed with someone.

As this went through his mind, he caught sight of someone, a man, standing just beyond Luna's shoulder stooping to retrieve a dropped lighter. The man straightened and turned in their direction. Harry, with a shock of memory, recognized him as Cormac McLaggen.

He was dimly aware that it was a bad idea to pursue Cormac but the dominant part of him decided to ignore that for the time being. He excused himself and approached Cormac, asking for a cigarette even though he didn't smoke. Cormac eyed him, grinned provocatively, and offered him the cigarette from his own mouth.

~000~

End Newspaperman


	15. Oxytocin

**Oxytocin**

~000~

_Oxytocin: the "cuddle hormone"._

~000~

"Stop being such a tit and pay attention! You never fucking listen to me, Roy…"

Harry did his best to tune out the sounds of what was surely a fight waiting to happen. If only the couple three feet from him had the decency to wait until they were in private to argue instead of on a crowded train, his faith in humanity would be in a different state.

It was Saturday afternoon, and as such the train was packed so tightly he could barely find room to expand his chest to breathe. Getting a seat for the three hours he would be riding this contraption was out of the question. They were all taken, and mostly by grannies and pregnant shrews. Needless to say, he didn't dare ask anyone to give up their seat, even though he was recovering from a broken ankle. His latest Auror raid, last week, had gone a bit wrong.

The ankle was also responsible for him being on the train in the first place. The risk of landing on it wrong was too great for him to take magical travel of any kind. Even the Knight Bus was off limits. He would have liked to stay home like he was supposed to, but Seamus was having his brewery's grand opening today and didn't know that Harry had a bad ankle when he demanded that he be there or be square.

They stopped at a station, with a whole two more hours of train riding for Harry left, and maybe one or two people got off. A dozen got on, much to the annoyance of those still riding. Harry was scrunched still closer to his neighbors in the aisle as much as he was able. A solid weight settled against his back.

Whoever it was smelled amazing.

No one was paying attention to anyone else. Safe in the knowledge that he would not be observed, he inhaled deeply and silently. It smelled like someone's cologne. It was definitely a masculine scent. That and the hard body pressed against his back was either male or belonged to a female bodybuilder. The train jerked and the stranger pressed still closer. Harry's face slowly filled with blood as he realized that the long hard _thing _pressing against his spine was most likely not a flashlight.

It had been a long time since Harry had stood this close to somebody. Since breaking things off with Ginny shortly after graduation years ago, he had hooked up maybe three times with different people that crossed his path. The last of those casual trysts had been two years ago on his birthday with a young man that reminded him of Cedric. Thinking back, it looked a bit twisted.

The train jolted again and the stranger nearly stepped on his foot. A deep voice rumbled an apology. Harry slowly realized that he knew the voice. He wriggled so that he could turn his head and peek at him. His eyes went wide. He was expecting an old Auror colleague. Instead he saw Marcus Flint. He hadn't seen Marcus since his third year at Hogwarts. Marcus was bigger than ever and still had a jaw that looked like it'd been chiseled out of concrete.

Dark eyes flicked down to him and Harry saw recognition flash through them.

"Potter?"

"Yeah. Flint, right?"

"Yeah."

"Wow!" Harry couldn't fight a smile. Seeing Marcus brought up all kinds of silly memories from his first few years at Hogwarts, before things got so serious. He remembered the stupid childish rivalries and the showdowns between Flint and Oliver Wood over who would have the Pitch at what time. He had listened to too many a rant from Oliver about Flint and Flint's many evil tendencies. "Marcus Flint, I haven't seen you in years! How are you?"

Marcus' lips twitched upward, "I'm alright; what are you doing on the train, Potter?"

Harry pointed down, "Busted my ankle. Not allowed to travel the special routes."

"Ah. Are you sure you should be standing, then?"

Harry snorted, "I'm sure I shouldn't be, but you only live once and I besides I couldn't find a seat. C'est la vie." 

Marcus cast his eyes around. Standing a head and a half taller than everyone else, he was easily able to pinpoint a woman gathering her things in preparation of disembarking. The train began to slow as they neared another stop. Marcus grabbed Harry's arm and began to plow through the tight crowd. There were some grumblings and a few strangled protests that quickly died as soon as the offended party caught sight of the giant that was Marcus Flint.

Harry decided that he had to be some sort of body builder. Nobody had shoulders that big just for fun.

The train stopped. The woman flinched when she saw how close Marcus was standing to her, and quickly squeezed through the crowd away from them. Marcus pushed Harry into the seat. Without being asked a young tough wearing headphones stood up from the seat next to Harry. Marcus sat down beside him and slouched a little, long legs forcing those standing near to shuffle a little further away. Harry noticed with a smirk that almost everyone on the car was shooting Marcus timid little looks.

"You didn't have to do that, Marcus. Thank you."

Marcus shrugged, "I'm a Medic. I can't just stand by and let someone potentially cripple themselves for no reason."

Harry's eyebrows went up. He seemed to remember Marcus being a bit thick at school; your typical meathead that liked beating things with rocks and wasn't too fond of reading. He coughed, "Are you? Where at?"

"I was with the military until last year, when I got shot in the head. I'm lucky to be alive, but ever since my injury I get dizzy spells maybe once or twice a month. It wasn't safe for me to be in the field anymore. Now I work at Mungo's in the crisis ward."

"Oh."

Harry hadn't known that. Truthfully, he assumed all the old Slytherins from school were either in Azkaban, emigrated to another country, or in politics.

"Do you like it? Your work?"

Marcus nodded, "Yeah. I like the emergency factor of it, wrong as that sounds. I like solving a puzzle and putting somebody back together again in a small window of time. It stimulates my brain and keeps my blood moving."

Harry chewed his lip, "I definitely understand that. That's why I'm still in the Auror department. The paperwork kills me, but that five percent of the time when I'm not sure if I'm going to live or die makes it all worthwhile."

"Exactly."

They beamed at each other. Marcus had grown into his teeth, once too large for his face. Harry took a moment to ponder how bizarre it was to be having a perfectly civil conversation with someone he hadn't seen in years, and someone who'd hated him at the time.

Marcus asked him if he'd seen Oliver Wood lately.

When the train pulled into Harry's station, he was reluctant to leave. It was nice to have a genuinely nice conversation with someone that had no connection to the Great War. Marcus had turned into a fascinating man, and Harry found himself regretting that he hadn't found his way into those large capable hands at the crisis ward just yet.

"Well, I guess I'll see you around…" he trailed off, standing and making sure that he had everything where it was supposed to be. Marcus dug into his pocket and pulled out a marker. Without a word of explanation he grabbed Harry's hand, jerked up his sleeve, and scribbled down an address onto his forearm.

He capped the marker and put it back into his pocket. The train shuddered to a stop. Marcus met his eyes.

"Call me or pop by for a visit sometime, alright? I'd like to do this again Harry."

Harry turned red despite himself, and redder still when Marcus leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

"I mean it. Call me."

"Alright…Bye…"

"Bye."

Marcus sat and Harry left, feeling bewildered but pleased. Marcus was far from ugly, and he had a raw passion for his work that drew Harry to him like a moth to a candle.

~000~

End Oxytocin

Who says a crowded train isn't romantic?


	16. Pratfall

**Pratfall**

~000~

_Pratfall: a fall on the buttocks._

~000~

"If something isn't done about this fast, someone is going to get smacked in the face!"

To say that Tonks was having a bad day would be a delicate understatement. She had been pleased at first when her status as a war hero gave her the privilege of a private assistant. That was before she actually experienced the utter hell of trying to find one that didn't manage to destroy everything in their path.

Why was it so hard to find someone that could brew coffee, make copies, and answer messages without setting everything on fire?

Her latest failure was a young woman named Winifred. Winifred was the one responsible for misfiling all of Tonks' notes on her current case. The fieldwork involved in being an Auror was easy; it was the deskwork that was tricky. She had no troubles chasing criminals through rain, sleet, and mud at all hours of the night. That could be fun, even. It was what she enjoyed about her job.

What she did not enjoy was trying to find her reports twenty minutes before they were due.

Winifred was crying as she opened filing cabinet after filing cabinet, doing her best to comb their contents. When she sneezed messily over an open folder in her hands Tonks had had enough. She cast a strong cleaning and sanitizing charm on the folder, snatched it from Winifred's hands, and told her that she was dismissed.

It was Thursday, and Winifred was her second assistant for that week alone. Tonks paused in her frantic search to just sit still on the cluttered floor of her office and massage her aching head.

That was when she heard someone knock on the frame of her door and smelled cologne that no one else in the department could afford. She slowly lifted her head and looked at Blaise Zabini. Her feelings about Blaise ran the entire gamut from black hatred to glowing affection to muddied arousal when she was too drunk to remember how much older she was than him.

It was the last emotion that frightened and intrigued her. The slow straying purr of his voice, his grace, the way he could make even a handshake seem intimate, they all drove her crazy.

Her relationship with Blaise was one she still didn't quite understand. Blaise would seek her out, help her and go out with her and her friends, and then disappear for long periods at a time. She felt like he was simultaneously an old friend and a stranger.

"Why are you on the floor, Tonks? Have you had a pratfall?"

She had no idea what a pratfall was, but she didn't think so. she shook her head and opened her mouth to speak. Residual panic and fury from her dismissal of Winifred clogged her throat. No sound came out. She tried again.

"Um, no, thanks."

"Would you like some assistance?"

Oh, but Blaise was a gallant young man. He always held the door for her and Esther, the elderly secretary. There was something to be said for a traditional upbringing.

"I don't know if you would know what to look for…" she trailed off, remembering that she had taken off her outer robes and was wearing a pair of paint-stained sweatpants and a man's t-shirt that had belonged to an old boyfriend. She flushed.

He stepped inside, closing the door.

"Try me."

She explained the situation as best as she could and then described the missing report. He asked about the case evidence and she told him what color of ink she'd used to write her notes. She was glad she'd started color-coding everything. It helped when she was correcting the mistakes of her assistants.

Time was ticking, and she fought to keep calm. Just five minutes before her report was due, Blaise made a pleased sound and handed her a sheaf of familiar paper. She could have kissed him. She _wanted_ to kiss him.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! Wait here. I'll be right back!"

She dashed out and sprinted down the hall to her boss' office. Sir Conrad Greyes started when his door burst open. Tonks wished she'd remembered to put on her red Auror robes before bursting in, but she was too pleased about not getting another bad mark on her record to care too much about the fact that there was a rather large hole in her sweatpants high enough on her thigh to raise eyebrows.

He took her report, nodded curtly, and dismissed her.

She floated back to her office. She paused just outside, looking at Blaise through the slats of her half-drawn blinds. He sat cross-legged on her floor, sorting files with a frown between his aristocratic brows. Blaise was a beautiful man. He was barely twenty-two, Harry's age, but he looked a little older. He had skin so smooth and fresh she wanted to take a bite of it. And his lips…she'd spent many an afternoon thinking about those lips.

Her body began to thrum a little bit. She frowned and chastised it. What the hell was she doing, lingering outside her own office like a little girl? She was way too old for that kind of foolishness.

Blaise smiled when she saw her and moved a few piles so she would have room to sit.

"I don't mean to be rude, but your files are a complete mess. I took the liberty of sorting some of them out, but I'm nowhere near finished," he hunted around and then handed her the missing case evidence, "Here, I found this. If you don't mind, I'd like to straighten your things out before I leave."

She took the evidence and began spreading it out on her desk. "Don't you have a case to do, Blaise?"

"I did; I finished. I was on my way home when I passed your office."

"Oh, well, you don't have to stay over-time-"

He waved a hand, silencing her. He was still smiling. "I want to. I'm in no hurry to get home. Also…I was thinking that maybe you'd like to get drinks after this? You look like you need a little liquid therapy."

She had to smile back, "That sounds wonderful. I should be done sorting this out in about a half-hour. Can you bear filing for that long?"

He could. By the time the peaceful half hour was over he had set right all that had been set wrong and even cast some cleaning charms on her carpet. He cleared the old mugs from her desk and disposed of them in the staff kitchenette. She couldn't resist raising her eyes from her work every few minutes to watch him. She always thought that he should have been a dancer.

As they were putting on their jackets she asked him why he hadn't.

He shrugged, "That's a long story, but I did think about it quite seriously at one time."

"Really?"

He nodded. They walked side by side to the lifts, Blaise with his hands in his pockets and Tonks with hers hanging loosely at her sides. She punched the button for the lobby. They walked in silence through the great halls and caverns of the underground Ministry and to the booths that led up to the surface.

It was misty outside. The sky had dumped buckets over London all afternoon. The clots of mist were sickly-smelling in the twilight, and Tonks couldn't see her shoes as she walked. Blaise offered his elbow and she took it. She was grateful for Blaise's arm through hers.

They walked a block before she, in a fit of boldness, asked, "Blaise, how did you end up going from the University of Diana to the Auror program? I heard you had a full scholarship to study Theoretical Charms."

"That's another long story. A lot of things happened to lead up to that result."

"You seem to have a lot of long stories."

"You know what? You're right. I wonder why that is."

They went into the first pub they found that wasn't too crowded. Tonks had always preferred Muggle pubs to their magical equivalents. She didn't like meeting people she knew when she was drinking. Usually the circumstances leading to Tonks in a pub were unpleasant ones.

"I like your hair this color. It suits you."

She self-consciously palmed the thick navy-blue braid over her shoulder. "Thanks."

They had a few drinks. She talked him into telling her one of his long stories, the one about how he'd gotten the corner office so quickly. She wasn't very surprised to hear that it was through under-handed means. Nor could she blame him. The other Auror he'd gotten sacked, Bertram Basset, had been an insufferable piece of shite. He'd flirted with Tonks so often and so inappropriately that she'd filed sexual harassment. How he kept his job was no great mystery. He was the boss' son-in-law.

Blaise had apparently dug up some serious dirt on him, dirt so serious the boss couldn't ignore it or explain it away.

"And I got the corner office in exchange for keeping my mouth shut."

Tonks had to gape at him. Blaise was good at investigating. It was well-known around the Department that Blaise could find dirt on an angel, and that he was not someone you wanted to make an enemy of.

"Why did you do it?"

Blaise gave her a mysterious smile. "That's a long story."

"It's a long night."

They looked at each other in silence for a long time, assessing one another. Finally he grinned, defeated. "I don't know what it is about you that makes me want to talk. I don't talk to anyone else. I try to keep my thoughts to myself. But you draw the words out of me!"

Tonks laughed, "I'm glad; I like your long stories, Blaise. You're an interesting man."

He smiled and began. "There's this woman I have feelings for."

Tonks raised her eyebrows. She was disappointed, but she wasn't surprised. Blaise wasn't a monk or a hermit.

"And one day while I was looking something up in the Ministry's records of sexual harassment for a case I was working on at the time, I saw that he had bothered her before. I'm not normally the kind of guy that takes out a personal agenda; I think it's a bad habit to let my emotions run my ambitions like that. So I did some more digging and saw that she wasn't the only one. I don't know if Bassett was a sex addict, or just a bastard, but he'd harassed almost every woman in the office. The only woman he didn't bother was Esther, and, well, Esther is over 200."

Tonks gaped, "What? He was fucking around with everyone and he wasn't sacked? Good god."

"Yeah. Don't tell anyone, but I'm working on getting Greyes sacked; he's been up to some suspicious activity, and the thing with Bassett really raised my hackles."

"Oh my god."

"Back to the story; I looked up Bassett's criminal record and saw that his first wife, some girl he married when he was nineteen, accused him of rape and assault and battery. I looked up the judge and saw that he was an old friend of Bassett's father. I don't think I need to say anything else about that. I wouldn't have been able to do anything if it was just her. I did some more digging and found out that he had been linked to the murder of an old girlfriend."

Tonks covered her mouth, "I don't think you need to tell me the rest."

"I guess not."

They lapsed into quiet, and Tonks finished her beer. She ordered another one. She wasn't ready to part ways just yet. The second beer might not have been the best idea, because half-way through it she found her tongue loosening to ask who the woman was.

Blaise looked at her in silence for some time and then slowly, as though afraid she would bolt, reached out and covered her hand with his. He didn't say anything. Tonks felt something dark melt away inside of her, leaving a happy glow. She flipped over her hand and pressed his.

"Oh."

"Are you upset?"

She shook her head. "No, just surprised. Is this why you play the hot and cold game with me? You know, when you'll come and spend time with me for a week at a time and then disappear for a month?"

He nodded. "I can't help coming back to you, like iron to a magnet. I try to stay away but it doesn't work. I didn't want to start anything with you because we work at the same office and…and I thought you weren't interested."

"What changed?"

"Today, when I came into your office. You gave me this look," he swallowed, looking his age for the first time, "And I just had to hope that it meant something."

Tonks suddenly dug some money out of her pocket and laid it on the counter. She dragged Blaise with her by his hand out into the misty night. She started walking briskly towards her flat, still keeping tight hold of his long thin hand. She glanced back at him once, just once, and caught a big gorgeous smile on his handsome face.

~000~

End Pratfall

The title is an excuse for me to use the word 'pratfall'.


	17. Quiescent

**Quiescent**

~000~

_Quiescent: (1) marked by inactivity or repose; tranquilly at rest; (2) causing no problems or symptoms. _

~000~

Neville's voice had a curious power over him. It made him feel loose and relaxed, and happy. Teddy tried to fight it, to assert his will, but the feeling won out. He spent a lot of time with Neville, hoping to catch a stray sentence from the quiet gardener.

His godfather's friends from the War were a regular fixture of his life growing up, and Neville was always happy to tell him anything he could remember about his parents when Teddy begged.

As Teddy grew up, though, he spent less time with the Weasleys and more time with Neville. He was good at Quidditch, and he knew everyone expected him to do it for a career. But the truth was that he wasn't all too fond of Quidditch. It was so loud and fast. And thanks to his rivalry with the Ravenclaw beaters it became violent.

What he liked better than flying about the pitch was to be in the greenhouses at school, and better still to be invited to Neville Longbottom's private sanctuary during the summer holidays. Neville's greenhouse contained plants the Ministry didn't even know existed anymore.

When he graduated, he asked Neville if he would consider taking him on as an apprentice. Neville had been surprised, but he agreed and said that he would be happy to train him and even keep him on as a partner if Teddy liked. Neville's potion supply business had really started to pick up after people started using his cross-breeds to save time and money. Why buy two different ingredients and struggle to add them at the same time when you could buy one and just toss it in the cauldron?

It was during his second month working all the day long with Neville that he first came to terms with his confused feelings. It was as though there was a magnetic ring around Neville that pulled Teddy closer and closer with every day they spent together. Neville understood him in ways he still couldn't believe, and was such a gentle positive person that Teddy began to wonder if it had been somebody else who'd fought alongside Uncle Harry.

He didn't know what to do. Should he tell Neville how he felt? Neville had never done anything inappropriate around him but swear once or twice. Did Neville even like younger blokes? Uncle Harry had mentioned in passing once something about Neville dating some guy named Michael Corner back in school, but he could only assume that they'd been the same age. Neville was almost old enough to be his father.

They sat together on the roof of the greenhouses one day in March on a morning when the white clouds went endlessly and magnificently across the blue sky. The sunshine felt warm between the blots of shade.

Everything was perfectly ordinary. It was the sixth month since Teddy had been working with him, and he felt like he knew Neville better than ever. They even finished each others sentences sometimes, like twins or psychics.

Neville was telling him a story about something stupid that'd happened over the weekend in Seville when Teddy's common sense took flight. It flew far, far away, leaving Teddy at the mercy of his suppressed desires. His breathing changed, becoming deeper and softer. He was so close to Neville. He could touch his hand if he wanted to. He wanted to. He did.

Neville paused for the barest moment and then continued to speak as though nothing had happened.

Teddy drew very close to him, suddenly unable to breathe or control his own actions. He felt asleep but hyperaware at the same time. Neville stopped speaking and turned to meet his eyes. There was wariness in them, but beneath that was affection and acceptance.

Neville let himself be kissed. Teddy almost sobbed with relief when Neville even reached up to touch his hand to the back of Teddy's head. Teddy's hair had turned bright green with glee and relief.

When they broke apart, Neville said,

"Teddy, I love you very much. I will love you in any way you want; romantically, as a friend, as a brother. Whatever you want."

Teddy was overwhelmed and didn't know what to say. He knew that Neville cared, but to know the depth and generosity of his feelings was more than he could process or believe. He wrapped his arms around him instead of answering. They sat that way until the clouds gathered, threatening a storm, and they had to go inside to prepare the greenhouses.

When they had finished, they went to Neville's home. Teddy never moved out again.

~000~

End Quiescent

Because Neville is awesome, and Teddy has the power of punk rock (tastefully ignored in this story).


	18. Rough Trick

**Rough Trick**

~000~

Rough Trick: A day laborer or other working class man who is gay for pay.

~000~

Marcus sat alone on a bench at the little park where the cats waited around for someone to feed them. There was no one else around. Two swings hung side by side and withered leaves covered the ground. The moon hung silent in the sky like a blade.

He often came here after a job. It was quiet and no one but him frequented it in the midnight hours.

Marcus hadn't intended to spend his life in the underworld. He had hoped to one day have a nice desk job and a family, once the whole business with the war blew over. But then everything went to shit. His father kicked him out when he refused to take the Dark Mark and he was stuck waiting tables in a Muggle restaurant and sharing a flat with five other men. He didn't return to the magical world until one day he passed by the Leaky Cauldron by chance and saw a notice tacked to the window celebrating the third anniversary of the Great Peace.

He visited his old ancestral home and discovered that it belonged to the Ministry, having been confiscated from his parents upon their life sentence in Azkaban. It was now an orphanage for children of the Great War that'd lost their parents. He had no claim on the house thanks to his disownment.

He rented a room in the Leaky Cauldron and got a job at a local apothecary. He saved up money and tried to re-take his NEWTS, but the sad truth was that he had never been very good at studying and was especially bad at tests. He was a practical learner, and worked best with his hands. All those tiny letters cramped together in twisting questions drove him batty, and he scored abysmally low. He had hoped to at least get a moderate score so that he could get a formal job in the trades with a chance of advancement.

He then tried applying for apprenticeship, but one mention of his family name closed every door he came across right in his face.

Less than a year after returning to the magical world he left it for the mundane one. He was tired of swimming upstream. In Muggle London he was just another bloke with no education, and could always bully his way into a menial labor job.

His fall into crime came quite by accident. One night he was walking home from a part-time job at a local old people's home when a man came sprinting out of an alley right in front of him, obviously drunk and waving a broken beer bottle threateningly. The man grazed Marcus' face, drawing blood. Marcus reacted on primal instinct. He seized him by the neck and smashed his head against the brick wall.

His mother always said he didn't know his own strength. The people he found work for regularly exclaimed that he was stronger than a fucking ox.

The drunk was dead in seconds.

Marcus was left standing there in shock, wondering what the hell he was going to do. If the Ministry got wind of this they would lock him up with only a sham of a trial. Death Eater or no Death Eater, he was still a Pureblood and he was still a Flint.

He forged a false identity with magic and replaced his wand. It killed him to do it, but he snapped his old wand and with that destroyed the Ministry's records of his whereabouts. He got work in a new bar and continued anonymous box-lifting and ditch-digging for anyone who needed it.

It was a month before he met Quinton. Quinton had witnessed his late-night accident. He threatened to inform the police unless Marcus accepted his offer to become a bodyguard. Not knowing what else to do, he agreed. And that was how he became Leo Scarrick's right hand man. The process was a bit more complicated than that, but the gist of it was that Marcus was bigger, stronger, and cleverer than his peers and rose to top of the heap through natural selection. Marcus might never have had book scholarship, but when it came to the practical crisis, he was a genius.

The sexual aspect came later. The term 'rough trick' puzzled him the first time he heard it. The truth was, though, that he had been a rough trick long before he even heard the term. He didn't really think too hard about it, but he'd slept with about half of his employers and sometimes men came onto him in bars or when he was walking around London alone at night. He didn't think about his sexuality at all. All he knew was that sometimes he felt sexually frustrated, and during those times he didn't care what he was fucking. It could've been a ghost and he wouldn't have batted an eye.

He'd only beaten a pair of his partners, and they had deliberately provoked him to violence. Even now he suspected that he had fulfilled some kind of fetish. He didn't want to think too hard about that.

So now he sat alone in his favorite park at two in the morning, blood still crusted under his fingernails, thinking about all the things that led up to this point. He didn't know what he could have done differently to make things turn out better. He wasn't unhappy. He shared a flat with only one room mate now, a bloke he actually _liked_ named Chubbs, he met lots of interesting people, and he could always pay his bills.

Still, he would've preferred it if his comfort had come from a legitimate source. He never wanted to follow in his family's shady foot steps, and he felt like a failure for doing so. Even in the mundane world he couldn't escape his family heritage. Crime suited him.

~000~

Remus had gotten into the habit of taking long walks at night shortly after the Great War ended. At first it was an excuse to get away from Tonks for a few hours, but then it turned into an escape from everything. Walking was his escape from the divorce, the pain of passing his curse onto his unintended child, and his consistent inability to provide for his ex-wife and son. Even though he was a war hero and well-loved by the Boy-Who-Lived himself, he was still nothing but a stinking Werewolf in the eyes of the public.

It took him a few years to give up on the magical world completely. He still kept his wand, and practiced a few spells every now and again to keep his hand in, but outside of his transformations and visits to Teddy he stayed out of the magical world completely. They didn't want him; why should he force himself upon them?

He worked as a proof reader at a tiny independent paper that published stories about aliens and supernatural experiences. His job was sometimes entertaining, sometimes depressing. Many of the stories he came across were from people that were genuinely frightened of a world that seemed too big and too dangerous for them to cope with. He wasn't supposed to, but sometimes he wrote little notes to the submitters telling them that everything was alright, that they weren't alone. It was okay for them to be a little scared, but nothing really bad would happen to them.

He didn't know why he wrote the notes. All he knew was that he couldn't _not _write them; it was a compulsion he neither understood nor controlled. He only hoped that they did some good. He hoped that they offered some comfort.

Tonight he was walking through London. He had broken up two fights and knocked a man unconscious who was trying to force himself on a woman in a car park. He didn't know why he did any of those things either.

Sometimes he wondered if he was asleep, and that everything he did was just an extension of his subconscious. It certainly felt like that.

Tonight the shrubs were twiggy and brave, and it was cold. It was almost November. He couldn't believe it. Another year almost passed. His son would be three years old. Teddy was such a sweet little thing, even though he was little more than a stranger to him. He could only see him for two days every month, the days directly following his transformation when his human side was strongest and his body at its weakest point. It was the Ministry's compromise. He was fortunate that he hadn't been sent to prison for daring to 'mate' with a human and to further spread his curse.

Star-shaped maple leaves crackled beneath his feet as he walked through the outskirts of a park. He could smell a variety of felines, some in trees, and some on the playground itself. There was a human as well.

Curious now, he circled closer and squinted through the low-hanging tree branches to catch a glimpse of him. It was a young man, maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight. He was tall and broad. He looked strong. As Remus watched the young man sighed and cracked his knuckles. He seemed to be deep in thought.

Remus could smell the residue of alcohol on him, but he wasn't drunk. Remus presumed that he must work in a bar. His senses pulsed with excitement when he detected blood. It belonged to someone else.

He circled closer. The young man looked up and spotted him. A small grey cat sauntered past them, moving across the circle of light from the single streetlamp and then vanishing again into the gloom.

"Hello."

The young man met his eyes. Remus felt a connection to him, or rather he sensed his wolf side connect to something primal inside of the stranger. Darkness answering to darkness, deep answering to deep.

"Hello. Sorry, am I bothering you? I wasn't expecting to see anybody else here."

The young man shook his head, "No, it's alright. It's a public place. I can't claim ownership."

Despite his words Remus could sense that this young man had already marked this playground as his territory, and was only permitting Remus to trespass for the time being.

"Say, don't I know you?"

Remus started, "What? I don't think so…"

The young man sat up straighter, eyes turned assessing, "No, I think I do. You're Professor Lupin, aren't you? It's me, Marcus Flint."

Was this one of his old students?

"Oh, well, I guess we do know each other after all," Remus smiled, hiding his confusion. "I apologize, but I can't place you. What year were you in?"

"It would have been my seventh. I was the Slytherin Quidditch Captain, if that helps. I was held back a year."

"Oh. Oh! Yes, I remember now." Remus remembered a too-big boy unsure of how to move his massive body with teeth a size too big and a surly temper. He tried to superimpose the adolescent he remembered onto the young man smirking at him. It was hard to imagine it, but the resemblance was definitely there. If ever Remus had seen a duckling turn into a swan, it was now. There was a rough-hewn aspect to him, an unpolished sort of charm, but charm there was.

Marcus stood and stretched his neck, "I never thought I'd see you again, Professor, and especially not like this. Do you want to go and get a drink and talk about old times? I haven't left the mundane world in ages."

Remus laughed, "Well I'm afraid I won't be much good as far as news goes. I haven't done more than visit my son and have my monthly episodes in years."

"Is that right?"

Remus could tell that Marcus was interested. The urge to pour out his thoughts and his pain was strong. He wouldn't, but maybe a drink and a chat would do him good. Marcus didn't seem to be prejudiced, and Remus could defend himself if he tried anything funny.

"That drink sounds good. Do you know a place?"

~000~

A drink at a pub turned into going to a Denny's, the only place other than McDonald's that was open all night, and getting a sandwich. Getting a sandwich turned into going back to Marcus' place to look at old photos from school.

Marcus' room mate was spending the night with his girlfriend, so they had the place to themselves. What was originally a perfect scenario for breaking out his few magical relics turned into a serious temptation.

Marcus prided himself on being straightforward about his wants and needs. He didn't beat around the bush when he was hungry, so why should he when he wanted some sex? Remus wasn't some young buck, but Marcus had slept with men far older and uglier. Remus had scars on every bit of skin he could see, and the sight of more still peeping out from under his shirt cuffs and the collar of his shirt started to make him a little crazy.

He held off until they'd finished going through the albums, laughing uproariously at the stuck-up little sneer on Malfoy's face and the one that had perfectly captured Oliver Wood attempting to punch him in the face and tripping instead.

He closed the album with blood roaring in his ears. How could he broach the topic? They were both more than buzzed, and Remus had been smiling at him all night. They were getting on. Would sex ruin this sense of camaraderie or simply expand its definition?

It was no good wondering. He had to know. he put the album away and turned to look straight at Remus. Remus' eyes widened. Marcus realized that the Werewolf must have smelled some sort of indication of his intentions.

"Um."

"Yes."

Remus moved in first. His hands got twisted tightly into Marcus' uniform collar. Marcus was vaguely glad that he'd finished washing all the blood off of his hands as they began to undress one another. There was nothing like a little dried blood to ruin the mood.

~000~

Remus awoke to the creeping awareness that he'd done something out of the ordinary last night. He smelled sex, and testosterone, and a young man. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to fall back asleep. He wasn't sure what he wanted more: for last night to have been a dream, or to never have to leave this lumpy mattress.

He felt Marcus roll over, mumbling in his sleep. His breath huffed over Remus' cheek. Opening his eyes, he saw that Marcus had rolled so that he lay on his stomach beside him with less than an inch between him. He was naked still. Remus spotted faint bruises on his shoulders where he'd gripped him last night.

He flushed with a mixture of shame and arousal. Was he some whore who just took the first offer of sex he could?

"You smell good."

Marcus mumbled it, reaching out and running his fingers lightly down Remus' chest hair. Remus sucked in a breath. No, he hadn't just taken the first offer of sex he could. Marcus just happened to be the first.

Marcus dragged him closer and laid a wet affectionate kiss on his mouth.

"Do you want eggs and toast? I hope so, because it's all I've got."

And just like that Remus found himself eating breakfast with a young man he once taught, wearing a pair of pajamas that did not belong to him.

He'd never been happier.

~000~

End Rough Trick

I have a Marcus obsession. I'm not even going to try to lie.


	19. Scattered

**Scattered**

~000~

Two women in their late twenties sat across from one another inside of a deserted coffee shop. One was slim like a graceful reed and had a braid as thick as a rope trailing over her shoulder. The other was built like a barn, maybe one or two inches shy of six feet. The blonde woman looked tiny in comparison.

Daphne hadn't ordered anything but a croissant. Her family's physician had said she wasn't allowed anymore caffeine for six months. Perhaps she had over-done the coffee just a little bit while trying to complete all of her dissertation research. Still, she loved the smell of it and insisted that they meet in a coffee shop.

Millicent had ordered black coffee.

While they waited, they softly started up conversation. It'd been three years since they'd last seen each other.

"I still can't believe that it's just us, now."

Millicent gave a commiserating grunt, "Me neither. I never expected Draco to marry your sister, no offense."

Daphne waved her hand, "None taken. Between us, I always thought he was going to pair up with Pansy, but I guess not."

"We all thought so. Fuck knows they hung off of each other like scarves for as long as we've known them. I wouldn't be surprised if Pansy's sudden decision to tour America had something to do with the birth of Draco's son."

Daphne snickered, "That's awful. I'll bet she'd somehow consoled herself that Draco was only with Astoria to make his mother happy, but little Scorpius blew that idea out of the water."

The waitress brought Millicent her coffee. She added cream, clanked her spoon around the cup, and drank.

They could see through the window across the street where three young men sat outside a butcher's shop doing nothing in particular. After a few minutes of silence, Daphne asked,

"Do you remember which countries our Blaise and Theo went off to? I've forgotten. I think one of them is in Brazil."

"Blaise and Theo moved to Egypt and Brazil respectively. Blaise owled me a few days ago and said that he's met somebody. He's thinking about staying over there, and I can't blame him. He faces enough prejudice in this country. And of course we both know that, no matter what he says, Theo isn't coming back either."

"Ah," Daphne hummed, looking thoughtful, "So it really is just us two left."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that everyone from our class has either gotten married and popped out a few kids or pissed off to another country. Maybe I should've married Theo when he asked me instead of going on that tour of Italy and getting my doctorate."

Millicent ran her finger around the perimeter of her cup; when she spoke her voice was lower than usual, "Don't say that. I'm glad that you went off and did what you wanted to instead of caving in to the pressure to settle down and act normal. Families are great and all, but that stuff isn't for everybody. That and Theo was never right for you."

Daphne smiled, "Who _is _right for me? You've said that about all of my past boyfriends."

Millicent shrugged and popped the bones in her thick neck. She gave a deep satisfied sigh. "I don't know, Daph. You're a special person and I don't want you to just settle. You've been my friend since we were little, and I want you to be with someone who deserves you."

Daphne thought about this, slowly chewing her croissant. When she spoke again it was to change the subject.

"The press have been all over my family estate this past week. They're, and I quote, shocked and appalled that I would even consider selling my ancestral home."

Millicent gave a disdainful snort, "What business is it of theirs?"

"Don't be stupid; people who mind their own business die of boredom at thirty."

"Then Pansy will live forever."

They shared a laugh about that and then moved on to more general topics. They discussed Daphne's latest consulting jobs for the London museums and Millicent's aspirations towards becoming the head of the Department of Magical Engineering at the Ministry.

Several hours passed before the flow of conversation slowed. Daphne had slowly torn her paper napkin to shreds throughout their conversation. She began to braid it and then looked up and gave Millicent a warm smile.

"I missed you. It's been a long time since we've both had the time to just sit down and be together like this."

"I missed you too; it's hard now that all of our old friends have scattered the way they have."

"Mm."

Millicent reached across the table and helped her shape the braids into a tube. Their fingers brushed together as they worked. Daphne's movements gradually slowed and then it was just Millicent doing the work, a frown between her strong dark brows. Daphne took a little breath and clasped Millicent's much larger hands in her own. Millicent stilled but didn't look up.

"Millie?"

"Yes, Daph?"

"I…I know how you feel about me. And I just wanted to say that I feel the same way."

"Oh."

It was so quiet that Daphne almost didn't hear it. She squeezed Millicent's strong beautiful hands. Millicent leaned forward and put her head into Daphne's neck. She kissed her temple and then pulled away, meeting her eyes.

"Have I been completely obvious?"

Daphne grinned and shrugged, "A little."

~000~

End Scattered


	20. Telephone Conversations

A/N: For those not super familiar with the next generation, Louis is Bill and Fleur's youngest and only son. I've made him tall, blonde, and faintly freckled.

~000~

**Telephone Conversations**

~000~

"And my other boyfriend is cheating on me with his wife again!"

Louis Weasley had never intended to work for a Muggle help line. He'd graduated in the top ten percent of his class and was even rated "Most Likely to Succeed".

But life is funny like that. One day he was assessing his university options and the next his parents announced that they were getting divorced. At first he didn't think too much of it. Half of couples that got married got divorced, and it was no secret that his parents had been staying together "for the kids" for years. He supposed that now he was a graduate they couldn't use that excuse anymore.

He wasn't expecting Victoire to have that huge row with his mum over Sunday dinner at the Burrow. There was an alarming scene in which everyone accused and no one apologized. To be honest no one had quite recovered from the things that were said that day. He wasn't expecting to find out that his mother (his _mother_, for fuck's sake!) had been having an affair with Uncle Charlie for years. Uncle Charlie always had been his favorite, too. He definitely wasn't expecting Dominique to elope with that rat-faced arsehole Thomas Mencken.

In no time at all, he found himself alone in his childhood home with his dad, who spent most of his time moping and fixing things that didn't really need to be fixed the Muggle way.

Why he moved out a month later doesn't need to be explained. He decided to give university a rest for a few years while he found work and figured out what he was going to do about his family. The extended family was divided unevenly, some taking Fleur's side and most taking Bill's. At least Bill hadn't committed adultery even though they were married only in name.

Working for the telephone line came about somewhat organically. He found work during the day at a book shop and after a nerve-wracking month of counting his pennies he decided to supplement his income. He looked around for night jobs. Most of them sounded shady or just plain stupid, but he applied at several. The telephone line paid the most and had the most flexible hours, and his boss was very excited to have him. He still wasn't sure exactly why, but he had caught something about his voice having a very soothing quality to it.

He was still looking for a weekend job; nothing available looked promising enough.

He had to admit that the help line really wasn't that bad. All he had to do was listen, make sympathetic noises, and occasionally give vague advice. If anyone called and sounded too close to committing suicide, he sent a text to the police with their name and location so they could intervene if necessary.

Some of the people calling had the stupidest problems. He had to fight not to laugh. For instance there was the woman he was currently listening to, one of the regulars. Her name was Lenora and she had three different male lovers, two of which were married. And she complained every conversation that she couldn't understand why her life was so complicated.

There were a few people that called regularly, sometimes as often as four to five times a week.

One of them was a man who never gave his name. Louis recognized his voice, though. He also knew from the manager that this man always asked for him specifically. Louis wondered why. Maybe he only wanted one person to know about his personal problems.

From what he could gather, this man was unhappily married and had one child, a son about Albus Potter's age. He didn't give a lot of details, and Louis assumed that he just wanted to talk to somebody about things he didn't feel comfortable saying out loud to anyone else, such as the fact that he was attracted to men and didn't know what to do about it. He sensed a large emphasis on keeping up appearances in this man's life.

He was the only regular non-suicidal caller Louis genuinely felt compassion for. He had no problem faking interest for other callers who wanted to get things off of their chest, but it did get tiresome after a while. People having affairs, hating their children, loving their children, feeling sad, feeling alone, feeling like a failure. It was like the same song played over and over every night.

He named his regular caller Claude. He sounded like a Claude.

The woman complaining about her triple relationships finally ran out of words and hung up. He had maybe five minutes before someone else called. His co-worker Sarah picked up. She was quiet after greeting the caller and then transferred the line to Louis. He raised his eyebrows and she mouthed,

"It's him again."

He nodded and said without thinking, "Hello Claude!"

There was a beat, then a soft chuckle, "Claude?"

"Oh!" he flushed. Whoops. "It's, um, what I call you. In my head. Because I don't know your name. Shite. Please don't be offended."

He was quickly making things worse, so he decided to shut up. He could hear Claude breathing on the other end, so he knew he hadn't hung up yet, which was a good sign. It was a bad mark on your record if the customer hung up angry. If you got three of the bad marks you were fired.

"It's Draco."

"I'm sorry?"

"My name. It's Draco."

"Oh!"

Immediately his brain began piecing things together that seemed completely obvious now. There couldn't be two Draco's out there that were married, had a kid Albus' age, lived in the public eye and therefore had to maintain a respectable veneer, and were obviously cultured, judging from the perfect tone and pronunciation.

Draco Malfoy, the Magistrate, was gay?

"Nice to meet you, Draco."

It was none of his business. But he already knew that he was going to pay close attention the next time Draco made a speech. He had to know for sure.

They chatted as if nothing had changed, but Louis felt more connected to Draco now. Draco seemed to be in a good mood tonight, and made some very funny sarcastic jokes about his co-workers. Louis began mentally identifying them as various politicians and Department Heads at the Ministry of Magic. It was very difficult for him to keep his composure when he pieced together that it was the _Minister himself _thatDraco had walked in on singing in his office.

Draco ran out of words close to one in the morning, bid Louis a cordial farewell, and hung up.

Louis was left with his entire concept of the universe shaken for the second time that year. Knowing that this whole other side to the Ministry existed was mind-blowing. There were scandals, sure, and plenty of gossip, but his concept of the Minister would never be the same again.

~000~

Next Saturday he visited the magical world. Specifically, he visited the Ministry. Magistrate Malfoy was scheduled to give a speech about something or other. Louis' eyes had glazed over while reading the poster. All he remember was the speaker, time, and location.

He arrived early and got a seat near the front, not that he would have much company. These speeches were mostly for the press. The public could come, but most didn't.

Louis hadn't seen Draco except in photos in the Daily Prophet. He remembered vaguely that he'd been to school with Uncle Harry, and that Harry owed him a life debt at one time that he paid off by defending Draco in court.

Louis recognized his voice at once. Draco was both exactly like he was expecting him to be and completely different. He was taller than he was expecting, and he looked tired. A piece of hair had escaped his grooming and kept getting in his eyes as he spoke. But instead of losing his temper he just calmly tucked the wayward lock of hair behind his ear every time with the patience of a saint. He was very handsome.

Towards the end of his speech he began to sweep the audience with his eyes, addressing various closing points to different interest magazines. His eyes fell on Louis and stayed there for longer than necessary. Louis felt his heart pounding in his ears. Did Draco know who he was?

When the speech was finished and they were dismissed Louis hurriedly gathered his things and headed out the hall to the lifts. He got in just as Draco did.

Draco accidentally knocked into him and quickly apologized. Without thinking, Louis said, "Don't mention it."

Draco stiffened. The doors shut and the elevator began moving down to the lobby. Draco finally swallowed and held out his hand, a polite smile on his face. 

"I saw that you watched the speech. Are you a journalist?"

Louis flushed a little, feeling ridiculous as he did so, "Um, no. No. I just have an interest in the Ministry's policy about…um…" he tried to remember what the speech had been about, but the truth was that he'd spent most of the speech checking Draco out and daydreaming. "Ah."

Draco's smile broadened, becoming genuine rather than merely polite.

"It's alright. I know you didn't come to listen to the speech. You came to hear me. You've figured it out. Who I am."

Louis shrugged, "It's no use hiding. Yeah. Not many people have a name or a life like yours."

"Please don't reveal any of the-"

Louis held up his hands, "No worries there. I signed a confidentiality agreement. I go straight to prison if I so much as wink once for yes."

"I see."

Louis met his eyes and then quickly looked away. Draco was still handsome even this close.

"I have to admit I never expected you to be a wizard. I thought you were just a Muggle employee with a pleasant voice."

"You like my voice?" Louis blurted. He immediately pinched himself on the leg. He really needed to stop speaking before thinking.

Draco smiled again, "Yes, very much. It's nicer now, in person."

"Thank you."

The elevator stopped. Before the doors could open Draco reached out and pushed the button for them to remain closed. Louis wondered if he was about to be obliviated. He hoped not. It would make him sad to lose everything he knew about Draco.

"Louis…would you like to go somewhere with me sometime?"

"Like a date?"

Draco shrugged, "Sort of. I'm a married man, so obviously there will be certain limitations, but if you'd like to get to know each other…?"

"Yeah, okay. That sounds nice."

"I'll call you tonight."

"Okay."

Draco let the elevator open and strode off in the direction of the monument. Louis made his way to the exit, deep in thought. He had no idea where this 'date' would lead, but he was very interested in finding out what Draco's marriage-induced "limitations" would be.

~000~

End Telephone Conversations

A completely new pairing! I've never even thought of this one before. Anyway, let me know yea or nay.


	21. Unforgettable

A/N: Yes, yes, fine, I know that it has been forever. Sorry. Again. This pairing is for Ryder Bellamiren. Ryder, sorry this took so long to write!

~000~

**Unforgettable**

~000~

_Unforgettable  
That's what you are,  
Unforgettable  
Tho' near or far.  
_

Severus Snape was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because he distinctly remembered sitting down in front of his private fireplace with the latest copy of _Potions Monthly. _He'd taken a bath and was dressed for bed, damp hair still clinging to the nape of his neck and dropping drips onto his collar.

In the background played an ancient record of Nat King Cole hits, a joke Christmas gift from Lily that he'd come to love.

_Like a song of love that clings to me,  
How the thought of you does things to me.  
Never before  
Has someone been more...  
_

He was still seated, but no longer in the snug parlor attached to his bedchamber. Now he sat on a mossy stone at the mouth of a cave. His view was no longer of the crackly pages of his magazine or the flickering flames of his fire. Now he looked down a lush hillside studded with stones similar to the one he sat on. He could smell the brine of the sea.

He was also naked. That was definitely an indication that something out of the ordinary was happening. Nakedness was not a state he enjoyed. He wasn't self-conscious for reasons of vanity, but for reasons of concealing the Mark and the scars he'd collected over the years.

There was a pit on his thigh deep enough to hold an ounce of gin. Instinctively, he covered it with his hand. The sight of the hole upset him.

Above him, the sky was high and pale gray with darker gray tiger stripes. It looked like it would rain soon. Faintly he could hear the rumblings of thunder mixing with the melodic sound of Nat King Cole. The music was strangely appropriate to this beautiful lonely place. As far as dreams went, this was a good one.

After several moments of listening to the roar of the sea and breathing deeply, he realized that he was no longer alone. One moment he was alone, the next he was not.

_Unforgettable  
In every way,  
And forever more  
That's how you'll stay.  
_

When his curiosity got the better of him, he looked over and discovered that the stranger was already looking at him. He was a tall muscular beauty, a man of indeterminate age possessed with creamy skin, white teeth, serious lips, and no piercings. He was very handsome. But his pale eyes seemed to want to escape his good looks. They added a strange force around him: he struck Severus as intelligent and dangerous, an other-land stranger. And why shouldn't he be? This was a dream, after all.

"I've never seen you before, stranger."

Severus did not respond to this remark. Why should he?

"I've wandered this lonely place for nigh on a thousand years and I have never seen you."

"Well."

The stranger frowned at Severus, possibly for his remark, and looked to the sea. He wore a long cloak over a very traditional robe, the sort that was belted and only worn for special ceremonies and by monks. The song swelled sweetly in the background. Severus closed his eyes and smelled the sea.

_That's why, darling, it's incredible  
That someone so unforgettable  
Thinks that I am  
Unforgettable, too.  
_

"I would have remembered if I'd seen you before. You have a very memorable face."

Against his will Severus smiled just a little, "Was that a remark about my nose?"

The stranger laughed shortly. "I hadn't thought of that. I suppose it might be. I like your nose, though. It's very Roman. You are fortunate to have such a distinguished feature."

They were quiet. A soft warm rain began to fall around them. Severus shivered. Though the water was warm, it cooled quickly on his bare skin beneath the breeze from the sea.

The stranger didn't seem to mind Severus' silence. After some moments of standing in the rain, he unhooked the cloak on his shoulders and in a quick move wrapped it around Severus. Severus grunted thanks and wrapped himself more securely. He knotted his arms around his chest and jammed his hands into his arm pits.

"What is your name, friend?"

"Severus."

The stranger hummed, "Your name is Roman as well. Your mother must have been clever. I am called Salazar of Slytherin."

Severus opened his eyes. "Is that so?"

"Yes. Why, have you heard of me?"

"Only in passing," Severus carefully kept his voice smooth.

Salazar sat down beside him on the rock. It continued to rain. Severus wondered if the song had always been this long, or if it had begun to repeat itself at one point without him noticing.

"I hope that this question is not too private, but can I ask why you are here?"

"I don't know. I think I'm dreaming."

Salazar smiled, "Of course you are dreaming. I am dreaming too. I do not mind this dream; it is peaceful, and I like it even more now that I am not dreaming it alone."

Severus nodded. He waited some time before he said,

"I have never shared a dream before."

_Unforgettable  
In every way,  
And forever more  
That's how you'll stay.  
_

It was dark now and he was looking to the sea, but he knew somehow that Salazar was smiling. He felt the air shift as Salazar moved closer, curling a hand around his.

"I am honored to be the first."

Severus had the same dream until the day he died. Every night was a continuation of last night's dream, conversations interrupted by morning were continued as though nothing had happened. Salazar grew bolder with time, and Severus realized after the first year of dreams that he was being courted.

He couldn't say that he minded. The dreams were unforgettable and kept his loneliness at bay for years and years.

When Nagini's venom slowly froze his heart still, he fell softly as a cloud back into the dream. Salazar was waiting for him.

_That's why, darling, it's incredible  
That someone so unforgettable  
Thinks that I am  
Unforgettable, too._

~000~

End Unforgettable


	22. Violence

**Violence**

~000~

"The Welsh are rather a hot-tempered race," was the closest to an apology for her husband's behavior Luna was willing to give. Harry scowled, rubbing his head. It still stung from being whacked with Scamander's shoe.

Ever since his separation from Hermione he had gotten into the habit of eating dinner with Luna and her husband Rolf.

Rolf was, officially, a magizoologist, but he'd gotten a minor in Potions and this translated somehow into him testing experimental behavior-altering potions on himself that were meant for creatures.

Harry ate dinner with a different man every week, or so it seemed. The trait they had in common, though, was a predilection towards violence. It ranged from mild to severe, and was always directed at Harry or any other male who came close to his wife.

Luna's soothing company balanced out her husband's peculiar behavior, and Harry was comforted to see that Rolf never showed any signs of attacking his wife.

Luna returned to their previous topic of conversation as though nothing had occurred. "So anyway I'm the type who can fall fast asleep just about anywhere. That's why I'm so nervous about trains, you know. If I nod off, only god knows where I'll wake up."

Harry took a bite of the excellent eggplant and tomato soup she had prepared and would have replied but was kept from doing so by Rolf suddenly launching himself across the table. Harry's chair tumbled back, overwhelmed by the additional weight. It broke in half. Neither of them noticed, though, too busy wrestling.

Harry elbowed Rolf, kicked him in the shins, and did his best to bite him whenever he had the opportunity, but still Rolf was gaining the upper hand!

He was about to lose, and the shame of it gave him the strength to struggle out of the chokehold Rolf had him in. he shoved Rolf onto his stomach and sat on him, panting and sweaty. Their breathing began to slow, and Rolf stopped twitching. Harry turned to Luna.

She surveyed the shambles around her calmly and then took a bite of soup. When she had swallowed she said, "Harry, dear, you will have to pay for that chair. It's quite smashed beyond repair."

Harry got off of Rolf and sulked off to the loo to wash his face and neck. Rolf had broken the skin on his cheek with a well-placed scratch and it took him a while to properly assess all of his new bruises. When he returned he found the couple in a compromising position that involved the dining table and not very many clothes.

Mystified at the dynamics of their relationship, he quietly let himself out.

~000~

End Violence


	23. Who's In Charge Here?

**Who's in Charge Here? (Or Harry Potter versus the Ministry of Magic)**

~000~

There were many reasons why the Wizengamot preferred not to do business with Harry Potter, no matter how qualified he was. The worst of these was that he sometimes refused to be serious when dealing with people who were angry. The Chief Magistrate, Alaric Armstrong, was often angry and liked people to either share his anger or tremble at it. Obviously Mr. Potter annoyed him to a considerable degree. He spent a lot of time trying to make Mr. Potter be serious when Mr. Potter wanted to be flippant.

This afternoon, unfortunately, the Wizengamot had no choice but to hold a very last minute and semi-secret meeting, a meeting to which they had to invite Mr. Potter.

A suddenly falling elm branch that otherwise uneventful morning started a horrific chain of events that resulted in the tragic death of Minister Exe. A Miss Luna Lovegood handwrote a series of impressions of the events. As she was one of the few eye witnesses, the Daily Prophet was forced to acknowledge her version of the events as the most likely course of action, sans the mentions of the Dread Ragswaggle and its wily bark-eating ways.

They had been in the meeting for three hours. Everyone was sick of the problem and sick of the room and sick of everyone else. Finally they had reached a consensus.

"No," he said with the air of one who has taken everything into consideration.

Harry Potter was not cooperating. He was being serious, for once, but of course refused to actually be constructively so. He had arrived almost half an hour late, and with a rather obvious hangover, and had been slumping in his chair listening to their arguments for various courses of action with almost no interest.

And now he had vetoed the one plan they all reached a consensus on.

"Why not?" Armstrong could no longer contain himself. "Surely you owe us some explanation."

Harry shrugged, "It won't work. Those departments hate each other. It'll all be in shambles by this evening. No, what we need to do is work with the Press, not bamboozle them. And I want Daniels out of it. He loses his head under pressure. I think we all remember last New Year's."

There was a moment of silence, and then the other board members began to mutter, some in agreement and others otherwise.

Alaric opened his mouth and, almost against his will, let loose a flood of verbal abuse. Politicians, uncomfortable, began to leave. Harry continued to sit there, keeping his eyes trained on Alaric while saying nothing to defend himself or his position.

Things were reaching a fever pitch. Alaric was sweating and his veins were bulging bigger than his eyes. Spittle frothed at the corners of his angry mouth. But then the Minister's successor cleared his throat. The room went silent. Kingsley Shacklebolt was still an impressive man even though he no longer commanded the Auror Department, and the scars encircling his throat were a blatant reminder of his heroic behavior during the War. Even prior to the death of Minister Exe, the Public had turned to Shacklebolt for guidance.

"That's quite enough Alaric. Everyone is dismissed. We are enacting Harry's plan, and I shall see to it that the proper parties are informed."

Alaric gave him a look of betrayal. Shacklebolt shook his head.

"I am ashamed of you Alaric."

Armstrong began to make his way to the door. All that remained in the room were Harry, Acting-Minister Shacklebolt, and Armstrong. At the door Armstrong turned and sneered,

"Who's in charge here anyway?"

The door slammed behind him. Once he was gone, Harry and Kingsley looked at each other. Kingsley sipped his tea, shook his head, and said nothing.

Harry stood and crossed the room to Kingsley's chair at the head. He flicked his wrist to lock the door and deter potential visitors. Kingsley dutifully moved his chair backwards so that there was room for Harry to settle into his lap. Harry took a sip of Kingsley's tea and rested his head on his shoulder.

"Thank you for backing me up. Armstrong needs to…well, I won't say."

Kingsley smirked and kissed the top of his head. "We make a good team. You can be the irritating twerp and I can look impressive throwing my weight around."

Harry hummed. They were quiet, Kingsley slowly swaying the chair back and forth. Outside twilight had begun to creep across the sky, and the stars were peeping out between the stray clouds streaking the sunset.

Kingsley tilted his head down and unapologetically inhaled Harry's hair. "May I say that you smell real special?"

Harry laughed, "I'm glad you like it."

They watched the sun set and finished Kingsley's tea between them even though it didn't have cream and Harry hated tea without cream. Kingsley dashed off the notes to the various representatives awaiting instruction. They sat secure in the board room, safe in the knowledge that, on pain of firing, the respective parts of the Ministry's vast bureaucracy were doing what they were supposed to be doing.

As they stood to leave so that the room could be cleaned, Harry said,

"Oh, and by the way? _I'm _in charge."

Kingsley just laughed. He didn't deny it.

~000~

End Who's In Charge Here?

Aww…I like Kingsley. Can you tell? Big and handsome and good at his job.


	24. Xanthippe

**Xanthippe**

~000~

_Xanthippe: an ill-tempered woman._

~000~

During the Christmas Ball, the most prestigious event of the year (invitations were treated like gold and desired on par with immortality and true love by those uncertain of their invitation to it), Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson gravitated together to stand against one of the walls between an impressive set of Chinese vases taller than Draco's considerable height.

There, they made fun of everyone in attendance for such things as their clothes, their family, and their posture, safely out of earshot of those they were deriding.

Draco insulted the Duchess of York's unsightly tartan bustle which was at odds with her mauve-colored bodice in between sips of his champagne.

"Do you know," said Pansy faux-confidentially, "I shouldn't be surprised if that was supposed to be clever."

He frowned and trod on her foot. He disapproved of Pansy's lack of loyalty. There was an unspoken rule that when you insulted people with someone else, the someone else was not allowed to insult you. But Pansy was bad at loyalty _and _rules.

"So I heard you're marrying Daphne," Pansy said after a beat, smirking into her sorbet. Draco was nettled even though Pansy had said nothing derogatory.

"We both know damn well that my engagement has been the talk of our mutual social circles for nigh on six months now, so don't act all surprised. If you hadn't turned me down it would have been you, you know."

Pansy sniffed, "I don't want to marry you, Draco. If you didn't have so much emotional baggage I might have considered you, but we can't talk about things that shall never be. Besides, Daphne is a cow. I wish you both all the happiness that you can scrape together."

"You're just jealous; you've been jealous of Daphne since school," Draco retorted.

"Daphne Greengrass is a fat little fool," proclaimed Pansy loudly. He clapped his hand over her mouth as his eyes rolled wildly around the room, looking for a sign of his fiancée. Thankfully she was nowhere in sight, though several dowagers had turned to look at them strangely. When they went back to their business he bent low to Pansy's ear and furiously whispered,

"What if she fucking _heard _you?"

"That would be extremely awkward," Pansy's tone gave no indication of finding a situation of awkwardness with Daphne to be in any way undesirable. Draco rolled his eyes and drank the rest of his champagne, his good mood spoiled. Why couldn't Pansy just be his friend and not make everything personal?

He tried to get back into their groove of insults but the magic had fled. After a few minutes he left their alcove to kiss up to the Prime Minister.

Much later in the evening, when the older guests had mostly dispersed or fallen asleep on the sofas ranged around the ballroom or in their chairs at the dining table, Pansy sought him out and laid her head confidingly against his shoulder, looking up at him with her admittedly-lovely liquid brown eyes.

"Now, now, don't be angry with me, Draco. I was in the ladies' room with Daphne just now and I was nice as nice can be to her. Friends?"

Rather a lot of champagne had softened his natural ire towards her and he was in a forgiving mood. He smiled down at her and nodded, "Forgiven."

"Then give us a kiss to prove it."

Not seeing a problem with this, he bent his head, aiming for her forehead. She did something clever at the last moment and he touched her mouth instead. He was too tipsy to care until he heard a blood-curdling screech.

Those who had fallen asleep were shocked out of it. There were shouts, demands to know what was the matter, and all other manners of chaos. After some confusion the scream was pinpointed as emerging from Daphne Greengrass, who was standing a few feet away with her finger pointing at the guilty couple (Pansy had arranged herself in his arms so that she was nestled against his chest. Against his will Draco found that having her there was pleasant).

"You man-stealing bitch!"

Pansy just smiled and mouthed 'cow', which Draco did not see.

Daphne quickly became hysteric, screeching all kinds of shocking obscenities. Draco had a sinking sensation that there was no way his mother was going to continue to approve of Miss Greengrass.

Pansy kissed his cheek and cheerfully told him that she'd see him that Thursday for brunch.

~000~

End Xanthippe


	25. Yes or No

**Yes or No**

~000~

Narcissa became a researcher to avoid attention. Since her husband's death and Harry Potter's glowing account of her patriotic behavior during the Great War she had been inundated with suitors.

This was partly because of her well-preserved beauty and mostly because of the wealth and prestige that she carried as a Malfoy. Draco's decision to go gallivanting off to Iceland without so much as a by-your-leave had resulted in them splitting the family's money down the middle and having done with it.

She didn't mind the attention at first. It was nice to feel appreciated, and she wasn't against remarrying, if only she could meet the right person. Lucius had been a wonderful husband in many ways despite his political affiliations and prejudices. He'd always asked her permission to have an affair, never went behind her back, and never once breathed a word of judgment when her extra-marital partners became increasingly female.

No, it was Cyril Wilcox who caused all the trouble. He was the type of man who interpreted "no" as a sign to redouble his efforts. Cyril asked her to dinner so many times and spent so much money on gifts that she decided that it was better just to agree to his face and then cancel later. This only seemed to inflame his passion, and cause the love poems he sent her daily to become filled with descriptions of her fiery temper and capricious moods.

So, she looked for a job that would keep her out of the house and well-protected. She heard from a friend of a friend that Hermione Granger, Britain's foremost researcher of, well, _everything_, was looking for an assistant. Narcissa had always loved research, and tested ridiculously high on comprehension and speed-reading exams. It seemed like a good fit.

She applied for the job and was ushered by a free elf into Miss Granger's private residence for the interview a week later. The first thing she noticed upon entering the living area were the books. They covered every surface. Cubbyholes were filled with scrolls and they spilled out of open cupboards. The sofas were weighted down and sagged in the middle. Against the wall was a bookshelf 40 feet long containing a remarkable assortment of literature. The books were arranged in no particular order. It looked like a bookshelf that was used.

She knew immediately that she wanted to work here.

She herself was a victim of that lust for books which rages in the breast like a demon, and which cannot be stilled except by the frequent and plentiful acquisition of books. Book lovers are thought by unbookish people to be gentle and unworldly, and perhaps a few of them are so. But there are others who will lie and scheme and steal to get books as wildly and unconsciously as the heroin-addict in pursuit of his drug. They may not want the books to read immediately, or at all; they want them to possess, to range on their shelves, to have at command.

Her musing was interrupted by the rustle of Miss Granger's entrance.

"Oh! You're here! Have you been waiting long?"

"Not at all," Narcissa politely demurred. She took in the changed form of Miss Granger. She remembered a girl not quite grown into looks with a head of hair wild enough to rival Medusa's famous snakes. Miss Granger was undeniably a woman now, with no traces of girlishness remaining. Her hair was cut short and held out of her eyes by a strip of yellow ribbon. She wore small earrings, a well-fitting skirt suit in blue tweed, and brown leather boots.

She smiled at Narcissa and gestured at the only available seats in the room, a pair of winged arm chairs upholstered in a pretty avian print. Narcissa sat and smoothed the front of her skirt for something to do. Hermione took a quill from behind her ear and glanced at her pad.

"Right. So, things are pretty informal here, so this won't be a particularly structured interview. Do you have any experience in this field?"

"No professional experience, no."

Miss Granger nodded and wrote something down. "Okay. Why do you want this job if you don't have any experience in it?"

Narcissa wasn't sure that she had answered any of the questions very well by the end of the day, and Miss Granger's face was inscrutable as a sphinx. She was surprised at how nervous she was as she lay in bed that night trying to sleep.

Just before she slipped off, she thought that Miss Granger was looking awfully well these days.

~000~

She awoke the next morning to the arrival of an owl. It was not yet six in the morning, so she was expecting an emergency when she opened the letter. It turned out to be quite the opposite. Hermione Granger had hired her.

It was exciting, the research. She wasn't it to be so fun. And Hermione's (she preferred to be addressed this way rather than by her title; Narcissa did not quarrel) sheer drive to discover and reveal forgotten or unknown information was fascinating. A few days after working with her, Narcissa was convinced that she was a genius in the truest sense of the word. Hermione was extraordinarily brilliant and no matter what subject was started, if she knew anything about it or not, she quickly saw the whole meaning of the thing and elaborated it by her wit and fancy, carrying it further than anybody knowing anything about it could have done, and oddly enough, generally correctly.

Narcissa arrived between seven and nine in the morning, depending on when she awoke. She was not required to be present until nine, but she enjoyed having a cup of tea and a bite of breakfast with Hermione while they were both still sleepy and warm. Hermione said some brilliant things when she was half-asleep.

On one such morning they were having tea, tired but comfortably so. It was a quiet morning. Neither of them had said anything but 'good morning' to the other, though Hermione's eyes flicked frequently from her breakfast of fruit and toast to look at Narcissa. Narcissa had noticed her doing this whenever she wore either her blue or her pale yellow-green dresses. She knew that the dresses were particularly flattering, but she wasn't bold enough to think that that was why Hermione was looking at her.

Narcissa bit into a scone and turned the page of the imported French newspaper Hermione ordered. Crookshanks entered the room. He eyed her and then began to purr with anticipation of Hermione picking him up. She held him, his throaty motor running beneath her chin. Crookshanks and Narcissa had a sort of uneasy truce. So long as Narcissa left his favorite spot by the fire and a certain uber-soft brown leather arm chair alone he endured her presence in his kingdom.

"What are we doing today?" Narcissa asked once they had finished breakfasting.

Hermione shrugged, "Just sorting, really, and some polishing. We've already accumulated more than enough to prove that there is a definite connection between being Muggle and writing better fiction, as you know. We just have to make sure that I haven't missed any typos before we send it to the printers."

Hermione had written a series of books regarding the differences between Muggles and Wizards, and the similarities. Narcissa was originally mystified by the purpose behind this, but once she'd begun reading the books she soon came to see their importance. They gave her a perspective into the inner workings of Muggles that she had never had before, one that changed the way she thought forever.

They worked steadily through the morning and finished before noon. They went together to drop the manuscript at the printers and took a long lunch out to celebrate. Narcissa watched Hermione eat, wondering who had taught her the fine table manners she used. If Narcissa hadn't known better she would've mistaken Hermione for a Pureblood.

She noticed that there was something on Hermione's mind but said nothing. Hermione would speak when she was ready. Narcissa only hoped that she wasn't about to be fired or put on hold until Hermione thought of something new to explore and write about. She tried not to think about it, but the truth was that she was already terribly attached to Hermione and didn't like to think about not seeing her every morning.

"Narcissa?"

"Hm?" she looked up from a bit of stubborn pudding that was evading her spoon. Hermione looked nervous. She smiled, doing her best to look reassuring. Hermione so rarely looked nervous. It made her look her age, if not younger.

"I wanted to ask you to do something with me, but it's a bit personal…"

"That's alright; I don't mind. I consider us friends, of a sort."

Hermione's lips twitched up, and her eyes got a bit of sparkle to them, "Of a sort, sure. Well…it's just that I'm thinking of going to Rome to look into that theory of mine about the Renaissance, and I was wondering if you would like to accompany me?"

Narcissa didn't know what she was expecting, but she felt vaguely disappointed. "I would love to. I haven't been to Italy since I was a little girl. I'd like to see if it is as beautiful as I remember, or if my imagination has run away with me."

Hermione laughed, "I don't think so. I went three years ago, and it was gorgeous. I could barely tear myself away."

They solidified their plans. Narcissa felt something warm in the pit of her stomach when it turned out that they would be sharing a small flat for the six months they would be researching. She wondered if they would be sharing a bed.

They did. The flat was very small, but unfortunately could not be enlarged because their landlady insisted on coming in every afternoon and looking it over while they were out. Hermione said that this was so that she could try on all of their clothes and use their cosmetics, and Narcissa was inclined to believe her.

The bulk of arrangements for tours of private museum collections unfortunately did not permit Hermione to bring a companion or assistant, so Narcissa frequently found herself alone during the day. She performed her tasks with her usual enthusiasm, but the work often didn't last noon.

Instead she took long walks, exploring the city and doing her best to avoid attention from the local men. To be blonde and beautiful in Italy was to paint a sign on your forehead that said 'Fair Game'.

She returned from these walks before dinner with Hermione and normally took a bath to wash away the day's dust and grime. She became so accustomed to Hermione staying out until six or seven in the evening that she became careless with her modesty. She was not a shy woman, but Hermione set the tone when she changed in the bathroom, or when Narcissa was otherwise inattentive.

Narcissa refused to think about why this disappointed her. She enjoyed working with Hermione and spending time with her as a friend. She had no intention of destroying that just because Hermione was young and firm and lovely, and Narcissa ached to touch her.

That evening she emerged from the bathroom naked but for a purple towel turbaned on her head, humming a lullaby from her youth and wondering what to wear. She shrieked, startled, when she saw Hermione propped up in bed reading an architectural magazine.

Hermione seemed to freeze, her face suffusing with red. She didn't look away, and Narcissa didn't move. And then Hermione jerked her head down and stuttered out an apology, stating that she had announced her return.

Narcissa murmured that she hadn't heard over the sound of the filling tub. She wasn't focusing on their conversation. Against her will she was thinking about the flicker of what she thought was lust in Hermione's eyes as she looked at her.

Narcissa hadn't been looked at like that by a woman in what felt like a very, very long time. And then the devil entered her, and her careful self-control seeped away. she padded up to the bed, still naked and sat beside Hermione.

Hermione's shoulders hunched, and her breathing became audible, almost panicked.

"Are you alright, Cissa?"

"I don't know. Hermione, I want to ask you something. All you have to say is 'yes' or 'no'. And if you say 'no' we can forget that this conversation ever happened. Okay?"

"Okay," Hermione choked out. Her knuckles were white.

"Do you want to be with me?" Narcissa wanted to touch her shoulder, her hand, her hair, anything, but she restrained herself. She didn't want to force this if it wasn't meant to be.

"I…" Hermione didn't finish. She took a deep breath and then turned her head. Narcissa gave her a soft look, and Hermione's eyelids fluttered down as her eyes focused on her mouth. Narcissa caught her sneaking a peek at her breasts and smiled. Hermione's tongue flicked out to wet her lips, and her fingers twitched.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes." It was a whisper, but Narcissa heard. She kissed her. It was halting, shy, at first, but then Hermione rested her hand on Narcissa's bare waist and parted her lips. Narcissa maneuvered herself onto Hermione's lap and leaned against her, loving the feel of her breasts against her own through the soft blouse Hermione wore.

Hermione massaged her waist and then explored her back. Narcissa kissed her neck and cheeks, pushing her hands into her thick hair and twisting it between her hands in fascination. Not only was there a lot of it, the actual hairs were thick and soft between her fingers. Hermione seemed to grow bolder, because she slid her hands down to stroke Narcissa's bare hips tentatively. Narcissa broke away from Hermione's sweat-salty neck to smile at her.

"You don't have to be careful with me. I want you to touch me."

Hermione took a breath, and turned even redder when Narcissa guided her hands in a tour of her body, from her thighs to her breasts. It was quite cute, the way Hermione couldn't seem to believe that this was actually acceptable. Narcissa was careful not to rush her, to focus on exploration, but Hermione shattered her resolve when she flipped Narcissa onto her back and enthusiastically sucked her breasts until she was covered in goose flesh and quivering.

They skipped dinner.

~000~

The morning Narcissa woke first. She turned to look at Hermione and found her still asleep. The covers were down around her waist, and Narcissa watched her breasts slowly rising and falling. There was a large love bruise on the underside of the left one, a purple flower on the soft white flesh.

Narcissa craned over Hermione, careful not to wake her, and placed a kiss on the bruise. Hermione didn't stir, but her lips parted.

Narcissa had never imagined that this would be the result of becoming a research assistant. She wasn't sorry.

~000~

End Yes or No

Was this satisfactory, Edle? ;)


	26. Zeitgeist

**Zeitgeist**

~000~

Harry had been dating Freyja for three months now. She was the Wizarding world's foremost supermodel, a Nordic angel who didn't care one whit that he was dating her to conceal his true sexuality from the press. She was too busy to do more than have an anonymous one-off when she could grab a spare hour, and the prestige that came from dating Harry Potter was more than worth the knowledge that it was nothing more than an elaborate act.

Harry saw Freyja twice a month, when they went out in public together to keep up appearances. Real feelings regardless, Freyja was a lovely woman who appreciated their "dates" as a chance to relax and just talk to someone without worrying where she was supposed to be the next moment.

Freyja was the only person he was completely honest with anymore, so he really shouldn't have been as surprised as he was when she informed him during one of their bi-monthly meetings that she wouldn't be upset if he chose to pursue Draco in private.

But surprised he was. He didn't know what he could have done to give the game away. Perhaps it was something that was obvious about him as the glasses on his nose.

He didn't take her up on her offer. It didn't matter how he felt about Draco. These were modern days, but a gay hero wasn't quite within the spirit of the times. Besides, he had other things to occupy his time. He had been promoted to Chief Magistrate of the Wizengamot and spent most weekends working or, if he could escape the eagle eye of his secretary, at Ron and Hermione's babysitting. They had just had their fifth child, a hellion of an infant named Charlotte, and were grateful for any chance they could get to be alone together and out of the house.

He didn't have much time for romance. Still, his mind filled with hazy images of the Draco he remembered from school and the cold aristocratic adult he glimpsed from time to time in the corridors of the Ministry. He couldn't explain what attracted him to Draco. There was just something about him that made him feel nostalgic but fresh and confused all at once, and he liked that he could never figure out what exactly was going through his mind. Draco Malfoy was now famous for his inscrutable manner and open-ended remarks to the press whenever quizzed on his new vocation as a policy maker at Gringott's and the only man in the world the Goblins would treat as an equal.

These were different times indeed.

Maybe it was a mistake of some kind, or maybe it was one of Freyja's tricks, but one evening when he arrived at the designated restaurant for their date, he found Draco waiting there for him instead.

He didn't know what to say.

Draco spoke for him.

"Freyja told me to tell you to stop being a coward and move with the times. I'm not sure what she meant. Frankly, I'm not sure why I'm here."

"Oh."

Harry sat, feeling as though his body was made of air.

They were quiet, and then Harry asked,

"Would you care to select the wine?"

~000~

End Zeitgeist

End Queen of Hearts

I hoped you guys liked this! Let me know if I should ever attempt another set of rare-ish pairings.


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